Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

flaws

How to Be Done with Not Enough

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I recently whitened my teeth for the first time ever. And the last.

Two hours after I’d dropped the gooey, used strips into the trashcan, I was standing at the stove when a jolt of white hot pain stabbed my lower left incisor and traveled like a lit fuse along the nerve, through my nasal passage and deep into my eye socket.

Within twenty minutes, my teeth felt like the White City under Orc attack. You know the final battle scene in The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, in which hundreds of thousands of Orcs launch boulders the size of Volkswagens and flaming fire balls at the White City for what seems like six hours straight?

Yeah. My teeth felt like that.

Even the slightest wisp of air was excruciating, forcing me to speak with my mouth barely open, my lips tucked protectively over my teeth.

Rowan told me I looked like a Muppet.

I took to my bed (I realize this sounds like hypochondriacal hysteria, but I assure you, it was not), emerging only to Google “relief for teeth whitening pain” and to swallow more Ibuprofen.

The silver lining was that all those hours in bed gave me ample opportunity to think about the reasons I’d whitened my teeth in the first place. After all, until recently I’d been perfectly happy with my teeth. They were straight (five years of braces, thank you very much). I had a decent smile. All in all, not much to complain about.

Until, that is, I began to notice the teeth of everyone around me, gleaming and white-as-a-freshly-fallen-February-snow.

I eyed the teeth of the SuperSaver cashier as she smiled and handed me my receipt.

I stole stealthy glances at my hairdresser’s teeth in the mirror as she styled my hair.

I even ogled my pastor’s teeth.

The truth is, I hadn’t given my teeth a second thought until I’d begun to compare them to everyone else’s teeth.  And that, I believe, is the heart of the problem.

Comparison. It’s the reason why American women spend nearly $500 billion a year on beauty products and cosmetic procedures like Botox, tummy tucks and breast augmentation.

We yearn to look like everyone else: the movie stars and the models and even the mom next door. We see what they have – less gray, fewer wrinkles, more curves, a firmer butt, whiter teeth – and suddenly, the way we look isn’t good enough.

Not skinny enough, not grey-less enough, not smooth enough, not young enough.

After four hours in bed on a beautiful summer afternoon, I came to one simple conclusion:

I’m done.

I’m done with just one more pound lost, one more errant hair tweezed, one shade brighter, one shade whiter, a few less gray hairs and then I’ll be satisfied I swear.

I’m done with asking my husband, “Do I have wrinkles? Do I look like I’m 44? Should I color my hair? Can you see my muffin top through this shirt?”

I’m done with comparison, done with feeling less-than.

A few weeks ago I spotted two elderly ladies at the beach where I was vacationing with my family. I didn’t know anything about them – whether they were sisters or partners or best friends; whether they were longtime residents of that sleepy seaside town or first-time visitors, just there for the afternoon like me.

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I watched them for a long time. I couldn’t stop staring at their broad smiles and their lively eyes, at the way they surveyed each incoming wave, waited for the perfect one, and then flung their bodies onto their boards and rode with their toes curled all the way to shore, their faces beaming.

I stood with my feet in the cold Atlantic and watched as they rode wave after wave. I saw their aging bodies – the wrinkles, the sags, the stooped shoulders, the veined legs – but it was their faces that held me rapt.

Everything about them embodied freedom, satisfaction and joy. They were two of the most beautiful women I have ever laid eyes on in my life.

I want to be like those ladies on the beach – unashamed and alive.

I want to be like those ladies on the beach, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that I have been created fearfully and wonderfully by God. Created perfect in him.

I want to be like those ladies on the beach, free and full of life.

The day of the teeth-whitening debacle, as I recalled those two ladies on the beach, I made a new declaration. I took a good long look at the crease between my eyebrows, the streaks of grey, the less-than-perfectly white teeth, the loose skin under my arms, the callouses on the bottoms of my feet.

And then I tossed the remaining Whitestrips in the trash, and set my sights on riding a surfboard with unabashed glee.

When Advent’s Not All Pretty and Perfect

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It begins with inappropriate words uttered over the breakfast table, followed by a discussion of those inappropriate words, followed by a retraction of the promised ice cream outing to Ivanna Cone scheduled for that evening. Then here’s the crying and the wailing and the gnashing of teeth (by both child and mother).

And the next thing I know, the nativity has been rearranged on the coffee table.

Baby Jesus sits in the very center, but instead of the tiny clay wise men and lambs and Joseph and Mary gazing down at him in a close-knit circle of adoration, Rowan has moved each of them to the far corners and edges of the table, with their backs turned to Jesus.

Every lamb, every goat, every angel is turned away from Emmanuel.

“You know, honey,” I say to Rowan when I spot the new arrangement, “even when you turn your back on Jesus, he still lives in your heart.”

No response.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe a revelation of sorts? Maybe I expected Rowan to look up at me all gracious and repentant, a flash of illumination written across his face. It’s Advent, after all. Isn’t Advent supposed to be pretty and perfect? All glittery and shiny and beautiful? A season of anticipation and awaiting and love?

But he didn’t. Rowan turned his back on me, too, and walked away.

There I was, poised to point my finger and start ranting and raving, when I caught another glimpse of those wise men and the sheep turned away from Jesus. And it hit me hard. I do it, too. I’m no different than Rowan. I turn my back on Jesus, too. I walk away from him. I can’t point my finger at Rowan without first pointing at myself.

In the end, the lesson I intended for Rowan is really meant for me. I need the reminder, too – that Jesus is Emmanuel. God with us. No matter what.

I need to remember that even when I turn my back on him, he still lives in my heart. He doesn’t abandon me. He doesn’t walk the other way.

Emmanuel.

God with us.

Amen.

 Have you ever had a revelation like that — did you ever suddenly realize that God is with you, no matter what? 

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Linking with Jennifer and Emily today:

For the Medusa Mother Days {or, When You Need to Pray for Spiritual Growth}

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I dumped the entire contents of the paper recycling box onto the kitchen floor. On purpose. And then, with my slipper, I scattered the Best Buy flyers and the sports sections and the torn envelopes and the practice spelling tests and the flattened Cheerio and elbow macaroni boxes. By the time I was done my kitchen floor looked like the floor of a dog kennel. And then I left it all there, just like that. I walked upstairs to my bedroom and slammed the door behind me.

Suffice to say, I did not demonstrate kindness and compassion when my kids most needed it that weekend. I did not exhibit patience and strength when the situation most called for it. And I did not love God, or my neighbor, or my own family, with all my heart. Instead, I ranted, raved, complained, bemoaned, wept, slammed cabinets, scattered the recycling and all but foamed at the mouth. And then, on top of everything else, I felt guilty.

I didn’t feel any better Monday morning. In fact, I felt worse. Not only was I a Medusa mother and a deranged housewife, I was also clearly a Christian fake, preaching one thing here on Monday morning for the Hear It, Use It community, and living another way the rest of the week.

I sat on the couch with my Bible closed on my lap. What was the point, I wondered? Here I was, smack in the middle of Ephesians, close to completing my first cover-to-cover reading of the Bible, and what had I accomplished? What progress had I made? Clearly I was not transformed. Clearly I had not grown spiritually or grown in my relationship with God. Was I not, quite possibly, worse off than when I’d begun? After all, I knew more now; I knew better. Yet I was still making the same, wearisome, stupid, awful mistakes. I was still the same self-centered lunatic of a mother and wife that I’d always been.
 
I opened my Bible anyway that Monday morning, more out of habit than for any other reason. I draped the black ribbon over the leather cover, settled my glasses on my nose and began again where I’d left off a few days before, halfway through Chapter Three.

As I read the section entitled, “Paul’s prayer for spiritual growth,” I knew instantly that although he’d written it for the Ephesians long ago, the prayer was meant explicitly for me that Monday morning. In fact, when I copied the prayer into my journal, I altered the words slightly, to make it a prayer for myself.

I’ve read this prayer in my journal every morning since then, and I’m including it here today, just in case you, too, are having a Medusa mother, deranged housewife kind of day. Because, after all, there’s hope in God, through God, with God. There’s always hope.

A Prayer for Spiritual Growth (Adapted from Ephesians 3:14-21)

I pray that from Your glorious, unlimited resources, You will empower me with inner strength through Your Spirit.

I pray that You will make a home in my heart as I trust in You.

I pray that my roots will grow down into Your love and keep me strong.

I pray that I will have the power to understand how wide, how long, how high and how deep Your love is.

I pray that I will experience this love, though it is too great to understand fully, and that I will be made complete with Your fullness of life and power.

And I pray that You accomplish infinitely more in me than I even think or ask.

Glory to You, forever and forever. Amen.



With Jennifer, Emily and Duane:

 

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Perfect Faith Not Required

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“You sure have a unique stride there,” he says, gliding to a stop beside me on the path, sitting low-to-the ground on his three-wheel, aerodynamic bike. “It’s neat though, real neat,” he adds quickly.

“Yeah, it’s not the most efficient,” I agree, tucking a sweaty strand behind my ear and resting my hands on my knees to catch my breath as we wait for the traffic to pass. “But it gets me where I need to go.”

The cyclist was right. In fact, calling my stride “unique” is kind. The truth is, I don’t run with gazelle-like grace. I galumph, awkward and jaunty, more like a wildebeest in a tank top and Nikes.
Instead of kicking straight up and back, my feet swing out to either side in wide arcs. I nick my ankles so frequently with my own sneakers they often bleed, sometimes right through my socks.
…I’m writing about my imperfect running stride and my imperfect faith over at the Lincoln Journal Star. Join me there?


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Bad Knee, Good Soul

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The knee is bad for a while, all puffed up, like there’s a golf ball bean bag just under the skin. It doesn’t hurt. But it’s grotesque. The kids like to poke at it like a jelly fish that’s washed up on the beach and then grimace, gleefully exclaiming, “Gross!” and “Ewwwww!” while begging to touch it again. When I look down at my legs exposed in shorts, the right knee bulges, the shape of a large egg.

I know what caused it: too many of Jillian’s Shred push-ups down on my knees, girl-style, the worn Oriental carpet in my living room no match for the hardwood floors underneath.

But despite the hideousness of a goose-egg knee, I procrastinate visiting the orthopedist because I know a needle, a big needle, awaits. And I don’t like needles. They make my feet sweat and my neck turn clammy.

It’s exactly what I suspect. “We’re just going to draw out some of that fluid that’s built up in there, and then give you a nice shot of cortisone to help with the inflammation,”  the doctor says briskly, all sporty in his polo shirt and kakis. I’m reclined on the table, an absorbent cloth that looks like a mini mattress pad under my right knee. I turn my head to the wall; I don’t want to see the size of the needle.

A sharp prick; it doesn’t hurt, exactly. But my feet, and my palms, sweat nonetheless. “Try not to let it squirt out,” the nurse says softly to the doctor, a slip of gauze between her fingers, and I blanche, imagining the liquid that sat on my kneecap for the past six weeks shooting out of my leg like a geyser. Is there not a word more medical, more professional, than “squirt” I wonder to myself, hands clenched, fingers white.

I feel the syringe drawn, and I imagine the putrid liquid being syphoned from my knee. A second needle is inserted. “Here’s the cortisone now,” says the doctor, pushing the plunger. Just a second or two later, he’s applying the band-aide. We are done.

I sit up, swing my legs over the edge of the table, shake hands with the doctor, apologizing for my sticky palms. Right before the PA slides the neoprene sleeve over my leg, tight and black like a wet suit, I notice the golf ball swelling is gone.

I wish I could remove all the distasteful parts of myself like that, I think later, on the drive home from the clinic. Jealousy, greed, impatience, doubt, short-tempered yelling, pride and selfishness – a quick prick of the needle under the skin, and all my bad qualities would disappear, syphoned away, disposed into a waste bin.  Even I, with my sweaty feet and clammy neck, would take a needle for that – the chance for a clean slate, the ugly parts of me tossed away like medical detritus.

I don’t realize it right away. In fact, it takes me a day or two. But then, the knowledge hits me hard: I don’t need a needle plunged into my soul. I don’t need my sins drawn out with a syringe. Because the fact is, Jesus already did that, just for me. He took a nail clean through to absorb my flaws, my sins, my very worst parts. And because of that, because of him, I’m left not swollen and bloated and foul, but clean and new.

My body may be broken, my mind and heart may be flawed, but my soul is made pure.

{And a little reminder…if you have a quiet summer story, stop by here Friday to link it up with Graceful Summer. I’d love to read about your small, sweet moment}

With Ann, Jennifer and Emily:


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