Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

metaphor

Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: You Have to Admit You’re Dirty to Get Clean

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We hauled two dressers from my grandparents’ house out to Nebraska when we moved back in 2001. They had sat in their basement for decades. My grandfather stored tools in them — rough files, ragged saws, hammers, nails, screwdrivers. The dressers were chipped and scuffed, but I could see in a glance that they were solid and heavy and had good bones.

One weekend I finally decided to paint the dressers white. My number one design trick is paint — white paint, to be specific. Often Brad will come home from work and find a piece of furniture suddenly morphed white – “Oh, the coffee table … you painted it,” he’ll observe. He’s gotten used to this over the years.

Painting these two dressers took all day, even with Rowan’s “help.” I hadn’t considered the dark finish when I embarked on the refurbishing, hadn’t considered it would take four coats to cover every drawer and every surface of both dressers.

Later, after the dressers had dried and Brad and I had grunted them back upstairs to the bedroom, I stood back to admire my handiwork. The detailing on the drawers popped in the creamy white. The finish shone beneath the lamp’s glow.

But when I opened the drawers to put my shorts and shirts and socks back inside, I noticed the grime. Gritty dust had settled between the cracks and crevices during the sanding. A tangled cobweb fluttered beneath the back leg. The interior was ugly and stained, especially juxtaposed against the gleaming white.

The metaphor struck close to home. As I rubbed a damp towel along the bottom and into the corners of each drawer, I realized this is exactly what I do in my own life, too. I whitewash nicks and scuffs. I coat my surface with slick white.

I even whitewash the self I present to God. I pray my polite prayers; I do my good deeds; I read my Bible passages. But do I trust him enough to present the layers beneath that shiny exterior?

Do I allow him to see the real me, with the gritty, cobwebbed corners, the dark underbelly?

Or do I coat myself pretty and pretend, even to him, that I am clean?

He sees it anyway, of course.

Slowly I’m learning that the exterior isn’t nearly enough. It’s fine to start there, but I can’t be satisfied with outward acts of faith – the volunteer work; the worship; the bible study.

No, the process must stretch beyond mere acts, beyond scraping the surface, into the dark recesses and dingy corners of my own self. It’s not a place I want to spend much time – it’s ugly in there, cold and dark. Yet the dark insides are part of who I am, too. And I can’t expect to be washed clean if I don’t admit I’m dirty in the first place.

Surely you desire truth in the inner parts;
You teach me wisdom in the inmost place.
Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;
Wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.
Let me hear joy and gladness;
Let the bones you have crushed rejoice.
Hide your face from my sins,
And blot out all my iniquity.
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
And renew a steadfast spirit within me.
Psalm 51: 6-10

 An edited repost from the archives.

Welcome to the “Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday” community, a place where we share what we are hearing from God and his Word. If you’re here for the first time, click here for more information.

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Puzzling {day nine}

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Rowan and I are puzzling in the evenings. We’ve already finished one of a European harbor scene, and we’ve started on the next – an image of two hummingbirds darting toward a magenta blossom. Lots of green in this one; I suspect it will be more challenging.
We spread out the 500 pieces picture side up on the coffee table, and after dinner is finished and the dishes are done, before bath and books, we huddle over the pieces for a few minutes. My spirited child is surprisingly focused and mellow during puzzling, a benefit I appreciate, especially as I grow less spirited as the clock ticks toward 8 p.m.

I gravitate toward the puzzle table even when Rowan’s not around — if I have a few minutes before I leave to pick the kids up from school, or in the middle of a Saturday afternoon when I should be dusting or folding laundry. There is something so peaceful about puzzling. 

It’s a peace I need right now.
I tell my friend Sarah that they key to effective puzzling is to walk away from the table for a bit. I tend to get a little OCD, wanting to zero in on the right piece and frustrated when I go for long periods without making any progress. “If I step away from it, I’m able to see more easily how all the pieces fit into place when I come back to it,” I mention one night in the car as we head for dinner at Macaroni Grill.

“Now that sounds like a blog post right there,” Sarah observes.

She’s right, of course. My puzzling strategy is the perfect metaphor for problem-solving, too. As my dad always says, “When in conflict, do nothing.” Sometimes a problem simply needs a little space, a little time to percolate. When I step away and rest on it a bit, the answer is often clearer when I come back.

Time and space allow the pieces to click into place.

Might you be puzzling over a conflict in your life right now? If you’re comfortable doing so, let me know in the comment box (or send me a personal email) — I would love to pray for you, either for something specific, or generally for peace and clarity as you percolate.

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I’m a Slow Loris

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I’m what you might call the slow loris of book publishing.

 Are you familiar with the slow loris? I know it sounds like a Dr. Seuss character, but the slow loris is actually a real animal – a tiny primate with big, puppy-dog brown eyes and a round head (so far, nothing in common with me, in case you’re wondering). The slow loris is also described as a slow and deliberate climber.

Yup, that’s me: the slow, deliberate climber.

…I’m writing over at the WordServe Water Cooler today. Will you join me over there to read about what it’s like to be a slow loris? {you may be one, too!}

Sowing Seeds

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When my husband and I bought our house nine years ago, we bought a garden, too. It came with the house – eleven raised beds surrounded by a white picket fence.

Brad couldn’t wait to get planting. Shortly after we moved into our house in July, he drove over to Ace Hardware and picked up a half-dozen packets of pumpkin seeds – Sugar Pie, Jack-Be-Little, Rock Star, their names as enticing as the thought of the orange orbs themselves.

Before long, the seeds sprouted into dozens of pumpkin plants, prickly vines spiraling up fence posts, tendrils stretching to latch onto garden gate, buds bursting into creamy blossoms.

…I’m writing about gardening and faith this month for the Lincoln Journal Star. But before you click over for the rest of the story, can I send hugs and fist bumps and HUGE thanks to all of you for your overwhelming support and encouragement yesterday? The emails, the Facebook comments and Likes, the tweets — I am simply astounded by your generous spirit. You are such wonderful people, and no matter what happens with this whole book shenanigan, I’m grateful I started blogging simply because it means I got to meet YOU!

Now click on over to the Journal Star for the rest of the story about hoeing a long row to faith…

[And don’t forget…if you haven’t entered to win a signed copy of Katrina Kenison’s book The Gift of an Ordinary Day, click over to this post and leave a comment. Today is the last day — two winners will be announced tomorrow!].

Growing Like a Weed…Or Maybe an Oak

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As the Nebraska winds blow balmy I stand at the edge of the garden and observe the damage. Stiff stalks of fountain grass lay quiet and crumpled, strewn across the lawn like fans. Oak leaves pile shin-deep against the fence, and the prickly, half-decayed butternut squash vines sprawl withered and crusty on the ground.

Two hours later, dirt caked beneath my fingernails, sweat dripping, I straighten my stiff back, lean on the rake and survey my progress. After all that, I’ve hardly made a dent.

Don’t get me wrong. I love to garden, I do. I love to dig my hands in cool dirt and press disintegrated leaves into tall paper bags. I love to hoe the soil smooth, prune and plant, water and watch. I love the clean slate of a freshly planted garden and the anticipation of rebirth. I love the scent of fresh basil rising from dark earth and gathering Roma tomatoes into the valley of my shirt.

But it never fails. Every year as I dive into the new season with gusto, I end up overwhelmed and exhausted, frustrated and discouraged. It’s a lot of work, this garden clean-up. I think I might fill a half-dozen of those skinny brown bags with dead leaves and sheared fountain grass, and I end up with two dozen instead. I assume it’ll take 20 minutes to wrestle the dead clematis from the fence, and an hour later I’m still up to my thighs in vines.

And then after the cleaning and hoeing and bagging and planting and watering, there’s the waiting – the interminable period when it seems like nothing will ever grow. I worry that the squirrels hijacked my seeds or that the robins ate them with their afternoon tea. I begin to suspect that my little boy helpers scattered the seeds willy-nilly instead of methodically covering them with just the right amount of dirt. I worry that nothing will grow at all, that I’ll be left with a barren wasteland of dandelions and creeping Charlie.

And that’s when I realize it. Leaning heavily on the rake, surveying what little progress I’ve made in more than two hours’ time, I realize that gardening is the perfect metaphor for faith.

There’s the mess you start with, the grime and grit, brokenness and chaos:


The tools to help you slog:

 

The seeds you plant:




The (im)patient waiting as the ground lays dormant:

And then, of course, there’s the desire to rush the process, to get more done, to figure it all out, to do it all at once. Forget cultivating, forget nurturing – I want results, and I want them now … in gardening and in faith.

I want this:

And what I get, at least initially, is this:

It’s a process, of course – a journey, a road, a path. It unfurls a little bit at a time, sometimes without my even noticing. I’ll be honest – I wish it would unfurl faster. I sure would like to get to the point where I’m confident in faith, doubt-free, questions put to bed, steady as a rock.

But it doesn’t work that way for me, at least it hasn’t yet. I’m growing in faith, yes… but it’s slow growing. Maybe I’m more like an oak than a weed. I guess that’s a good thing in the end; I hope it means my roots will go deep and my faith will live tall and strong.

 Oak tree photo by Noah.

Linking up with Jennifer for her Journeys series:

Journeys