Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

money

Tales of Black Bugs, Dented Drywall and a Squirrel-Munched Wire

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I spot a black roach-like beetle foraging beneath the kitchen cabinet. I refuse to say it is a cockroach. I just won’t.

Brad tosses a pair of loafers down the stairs, and they put a dent in the drywall.

The carpet on the basement stairs is permanently stained – I know this because I rented a carpet cleaner last weekend, which despite my best efforts failed to remove said stains.

We can’t flush the downstairs toilet while the washing machine is running.

The kitchen cupboard door occasionally dangles loose from the hinge and hangs askance with one corner at rest on the floor.

The window panes are filthy because the screens and storm windows are welded into place, and I swear a blue streak in front of the neighbors every time I try to wrestle them free.

The basement leaks at the slightest drizzle, and a squirrel chewed through the Internet cable outside the house [this, perhaps, a sign from God?].

“I’ve had enough,” I yelp to Brad. “I want to move into one of those big, fancy, brand-new houses on the south side of town. I don’t care if it’s on a lot with no trees — I want a house that’s not falling apart. I want new!”

“What? No trees? We’re moving to a house with no trees?” Noah, future botanist, is aghast. “Are you serious? Are we really moving to a house with no trees?”

No, I’m not serious; we are not moving into a house with no trees. I love my old house. I do. It’s quaint. It’s got character. But it’s also got dents and water stains and, ahem, the occasional bug.

These are the days I launch into my infamous, “I deserve more” tirade. You know the one, right? It goes something like this:

“I deserve to have a bathroom that’s not smeared in toothpaste gobs – a bathroom where I don’t have to empty my tub of plastic manta rays and puffer fish that spit when squeezed every time I want to take a bath.”

“I deserve to have a closet that holds all my clothes, rather than just one season’s worth.”

“I deserve a living room that can fit a sectional. New patio furniture that I don’t have to spray paint every spring. A garage that can accommodate a car and the kids’ bikes.”

I want, I need, I deserve so much more.

And you thought the Shop Not Project was going well, didn’t you?

Truthfully, Shop-Not is going well. I haven’t bought anything in more than eight months; that’s something, right? I’ve discovered my wardrobe is much more flexible and accommodating than I ever imagined. And I am blessed by generous friends who drop off shopping bags full of hand-me-downs.

I can even walk through Target now without feeling faint.

But still, I have moments, many moments, when I covet. Moments when I yearn and desire and want. And I am quite skilled at convincing myself that I need more, bigger, better…when the fact is, I don’t need a thing.

So I pull The Hole in Our Gospel from the shelf and scan the pages for those stats, the ones that put everything into perspective in the first place:

• More than 26,500 children died yesterday of preventable causes related to their poverty, and it will happen again today, and tomorrow and the day after that.

• Almost 10 million children will be dead in a year from preventable causes related to poverty.

• More than 1 billion people live on less than a dollar a day.

And then I look around my house, at the sun slanting in windows, at the cozy couch, at the tile backsplash and stainless steel appliances, at the faucets that shower hot water and the new roof that keeps out the rain (at least out of the first and second floor), and I know.

 It is more than enough…and then some.

Joining Jen and the sisters at Finding Heaven:

 

And Emily at Imperfect Prose: 



The Gospel According to Seuss

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When my son Rowan settles on a favorite book, he likes to read it five, six, ten times in a row, night after night after night. Most recently it’s been The Lorax. I glimpse him heading toward the bed, cornflower blue cover of The Lorax wedged under his arm, and I grit my teeth and commence meditative breathing.

I admit, I don’t love Dr. Seuss. All that silly rhyming and nonsensical tongue-twisting syntax. The googly-googs and the moodly-woobs, the wiffle-wambas and the schissle-schambas. It’s all just too much for me. Really, after a long day of work and dishes, laundry and homework, epic dust-bunny battles and sorting stacks of mail and backpack debris, I’m expected to perform linguistic cartwheels, too? I’ll be frank: I’ve been known to slide The Lorax, Green Eggs & Ham and The Birthday Bird beneath the dusty, crumby underbelly of the couch, where no man or child dares go. I’ve also carted a few in the Seuss oeuvre to the Goodwill. Let some other mother, the one with infinite patience and a more limber tongue, deal with Thing One and Thing Two.

I’ve learned, though, that The Lorax has a few lessons to teach me about faith, believe it or not. Join me over at Ginny’s place to find out more…

Radical giving

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We made another trip to Hobby Lobby on Saturday. Noah wanted to buy a Christmas wreath to hang on his bedroom door, so we swung by to see what they had in stock. Noah had $9 in his pocket – allowance money saved from weeks of emptying the dishwasher, sweeping the floor and making his bed.

Rowan, once he got wind of the wreath plan, wanted one, too. I explained that we were there because Noah was spending his own money, not mine, and that I wasn’t going to buy a decoration for Rowan.

This declaration did not go over well.

“I’ve got a plan,” Noah suddenly announced to his brother. “You can have whatever money is left over from what I spend on the wreath, that way you’ll be able to buy a decoration, too.”

Rowan was happy, and I was even happier that he had ceased whining. Plus I was pleased with Noah’s generosity, the fact that he was willing to share a few of his hard-earned dollars with his younger brother.

The plan went awry when we realized Christmas wreaths – even fake plasticy ones with faux berries and dusty holly – don’t come cheap. After much mulling Noah finally settled on one for $9.99. I loaned him one dollar from this week’s allowance.

The problem, of course, was that Noah didn’t have any spare money left to share with Rowan.

Rowan freaked when he heard the news, and in the end I forked over $2 for an Ice Age coloring book for him. We all left Hobby Lobby happy.

After yesterday’s reading (Matthew 6: 19-24) and Pastor Greg’s sermon, though, I thought about that Hobby Lobby incident again and how it reflected my own giving.

Don’t I give the same way Noah did? Don’t I feel good about it; don’t I praise myself for my generosity, when in fact I am giving God what’s left over?

Once my personal needs are satiated – I’ve dined with friends or bought a new book at Barnes and Noble or a bedside lamp at Target – I take what’s remaining from the personal money allotted to me each month and give it to charity. Instead of taking say half, or even a quarter, of my personal spending money on the first of the month and tuck it into what I call my “God envelope,” I take what’s left in my wallet on the 30th or 31st.

And I pat myself on the back for this. I feel good. Charitable. Worthy.

When I launched the Shop-Not Project on September 1, the whole point was to limit my personal spending and take the money saved to support a Compassion child at the end of the year. I spend a lot less each month now that I don’t buy clothes, shoes, purses or jewelry, but I still spend. Some months I spend $40, some months $50 or even $60 of the $100 monthly allotment – and then the remainder I move into the God envelope.

Don’t I have that backwards?

Noah’s intention to share what was left over from his allowance with his younger brother was good. Clearly his attitude could have been much more selfish – a “too bad for you it’s my money” attitude. Similarly, the fact that I have consciously not spent every last dime of my monthly allotment each month in order to save it for the God envelope is a good intention.

But it could be better.

I could put God and his suffering people first. Before my Barnes and Noble purchase. Before my dinner, wine and molten lava cake with friends. Before whatever else I might deem necessary.

Consider what C.S. Lewis has to say about giving:

I do not believe one can settle how much we ought to give. I am afraid the only safe rule is to give more than we can spare. In other words, if our expenditure on comforts, luxuries, amusements, etc., is up to the standard common among those with the same income as our own, we are probably giving away too little. If our charities do not at all pinch or hamper us, I should say they are too small. There ought to be things we should like to do and cannot do because our charitable expenditures exclude them.

That’s radical giving. That’s real giving, giving from the heart first.

And that’s what God wants from me.

Wherever your treasure is, there the desires of your heart will also be.
Matthew 6:21

Polishing

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Meet my new BFFs:

That’s right: a can of shoe polish and a brush.
Last week when chilly temperatures blew into Nebraska, I switched out my shoes – you know, swapped flip flops and slanky sandals for closed-toe Mary Janes and knee-high boots.
The problem, I noticed, was that when I lifted my winter shoes out of the Rubbermaid storage container where they had sweltered all summer, they looked a little bedraggled – scuffed and dusty and unkempt. 
So I did what any good Shop-Not girl would do: I retrieved the Zip-Lock bag containing the shoe polish and brush from the back of the linen closet, lined up my shoes on the kitchen floor and shined them into shape.
“What are you doing?” asked Noah, bending down to inspect the stiff bristles and the smooth black polish, sniffing in the pungent gasoline shoe polishy smell. “What is that?”
You read right. My child has never witnessed the act of shoe polishing. That’s because in the past, when my shoes got worn and scruffy-looking, instead of buffing them to a sheen, I’d toss them in the trash can and buy a new pair. Not at the very first sign of wear, of course; that would be too Paris Hilton. But when the heels wore down and the toes got scuffed, I’d head for Kohl’s or Target or Famous Footwear, bent on purchasing another pair of platforms or ankle boots.
Lazy? Yup. Wasteful? Absolutely. But I’m telling you the truth…that’s what I did.
Believe me, I wasn’t raised this way. Shoe polishing was a weekly event at my house when I was a kid.
Every Saturday morning my dad would line up four or five pairs of dress shoes – the tan loafers with the snazzy tassels, the black tie shoes from L.L. Bean, the buttery chocolate slip-ons – plus his well-worn combat boots (Buzz was a Sergeant Major in the Army Reserves – yes sir I was raised by a Sergeant Major) along the step leading from the kitchen to the family room.

He would lay out his supplies – spray bottle with water for spritzing and “spit” shining; soft cloth for buffing (I use a paper towel…breathe deeply, Dad); brown and black disks of Kiwi polish with the nifty metal push-latch for opening the can; and two brushes. Buzz had separate brushes, one with black bristles for black shoes and one with brown bristles for brown shoes…no mixing of polish residue (I told you this was serious business).

Then he’d sit on the floor in his dungarees and get to work. First a generous dollop of polish rubbed liberally in rhythmic circles into the leather. Then the resting period, to let the polish soak in. Then the vigorous brushing. Shoe polishing was an aerobic workout for my dad; I’ve actually seen him break into a Saturday-morning sweat. Then the spritz of water – and always an extra spritz in my hair or on my face  (exceedingly annoying as a teen). Then more brushing.
The whole process took about 20 or 30 minutes…every Saturday morning without fail.
So you see, as an adult, I think my refusal to polish has been a bit of a rebellion. I’m not a wild woman – I don’t carouse or drink (heavily). I’ve never smoked pot (not even inhaled). I never broke my curfew. But I tell you what: I don’t polish shoes. That’s where I draw the line. Yup, that’s my big stand.
Well…that’s where I did draw the line, I should say. Until Shop-Not. Now that I can’t buy a pair of shoes for 10 more months, the can of shoe polish, the bristly brush and the paper towel are my new best friends. I may even invest in a second brush. I’m feeling extravagant (all that extra money from not shopping, of course).
Turns out, as my dad always says: plant a pepper, get a pepper.
Just like Buzz, I polish my shoes now. I may not do it every Saturday morning, and I may not have all the gadgets, but I know I’ll be polishing my platforms and Mary Janes, boots and flats regularly for the next year.
And you know what? I don’t mind. There sure are a lot worse things than turning out just like my dad.
Do you have any habits or customs of your parents that you can’t believe you’ve adopted over the years?
Click here for other posts in the Shop-Not Chronicles: my year of not shopping.

Envelope for Africa

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“We have a small kitchen,” he observes, sitting on the counter, dangling feet casting shadows in the flickering candlelight.

“Actually, we don’t,” I answer. “Not really. Not compared to most people in the world.”

But when I say it, when I tell Noah this, I know in my heart he’s heard me say the same. I’ve complained about a too-small kitchen, a too-small house before. He’s heard those words spill bitter from my own mouth.

“Let’s take a look at this,” I suggest to Noah later that night, leading him toward the computer. Together we read Ann Voskamp’s post about meeting her adopted daughter, the Guatemalan girl her family sponsors through Compassion.

Noah stands next to me in his Walle pajamas as I scroll through Ann’s photos, noting the family’s tiny, squalid kitchen; the bed squeezed into the room with corrugated tin walls; the row of worn stuffed animals on the shelf; the laundry strung outdoors in the drizzle and draped across the cramped bedroom.

“What do you think about that kitchen?” I ask Noah, pointing to cinder block walls and cement floor and dingy sink and tumbling plastic plates and ramshackle cupboard with no doors.

“It doesn’t look very nice,” he admits, his eyes still glued to the computer screen.

“Why aren’t there any windows?” he wonders. “And what’s that blue stuff for?” he inquires about the plastic tarp pulled loosely over gaps between tin, flimsy shield against wind and rain.

“How would you like to share a bedroom with six other people?” I ask him.

“I definitely wouldn’t want to share my room with Rowan,” he says quietly, grinning. 

Noah and I talk for a long time about what we have, compared to what others have not. We talk about our home here in Nebraska – our newly remodeled kitchen with the six-burner gas stove and the stainless steel fridge; our two bathrooms; our goosefeather pillows; our backyard patio with the striped umbrella and cozy seat cushions and potted plants.

We also talk about Noah’s money, the dollar bills spilling from his wallet that’s crammed into the back of his dresser drawer.

He brings down his wallet from upstairs, and we sort his cash into three equal piles on the desk: one for spending, one for saving, one for giving. I ask Noah what he might like to use his giving pile to support.

“I’d like to give it to our Africa girls,” he says, referring to Mary Christian and Neema, the two Tanzanian orphans we sponsor through our church.

I hand him a plain white business envelope, and together we go upstairs to his bedroom. Noah sits on the edge of the bed, presses the creases from ten one-dollar bills and slips them into the envelope. I write on the front, “Noah’s Sisters in Africa.”

Noah places the envelope into his dresser drawer and slides it shut with a smile.

Ann Voskamp has written the most compelling series of posts I think I have ever read about her trip with Compassion International to Guatemala. And she asks us this week what we are doing for the least of these.

holy experience