Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

The High Calling

No Doesn’t Necessarily Mean a Closed Door

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Friends, before I get to today’s blog post…I just want to say a HUGE thank you to all of you who rallied behind me after Tuesday’s post. In two days, 53 new subscribers came on board – and that more than makes up for the 47 subscribers who decided to part ways after last week’s post about same-sex marriage. I am just astounded by your generosity and your encouragement. Believe me when I say this: it’s NOT about the numbers. I really feel like we have cemented a relationship and a partnership here over the last few days, and for that I am so, so grateful. And to those of you who have been reading here a long time (or even a short time) and have stayed on even though we might disagree on this issue (or others), thank you. Differences can be bridged by community. Thank you for demonstrating how it’s done. With love, Michelle

 

Grass Path Prairie edited

I’ve been snapping photographs of paths lately—paths across bridges, paths through the Nebraska tall grass, paths disappearing into the woods. I think I’m drawn to collecting these images because I’m so unsure of my own way right now. Documenting the paths I walk daily near my home is a practice that offers reassurance and comfort. These pictures remind me that my path exists, even though I can’t see it right now.

This past October my publisher turned down my proposal for my next book, a rejection that felt a lot like being fired. After I hung up the phone with my agent, who had relayed the bad news, I sat at my computer with my fingers on the keyboard. I figured being fired by my publisher was a clear sign that I should update my resume—no time like the present, right? But I couldn’t. Instead I collapsed on the living room couch and cried for two hours straight. I wore sunglasses to hide my red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes when I picked my kids up from school later that afternoon.

…I’m over at The High Calling this week, writing a post for the series “In Over Your Head.” Will you join me over there for the rest of this story? 

Like a Jar of Expensive Perfume

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viola

Recently my nine-year-old son Rowan, a beginner violist, attempted to tune his instrument before performing a Christmas “concert” for his grandparents. After an hour of fruitless fiddling and many frustrated tears, Rowan finally allowed my dad to call a local music shop for help. They found someone willing to squeeze them in that afternoon.

Two hours later Rowan burst through the front door with a tuned viola. “The guy even did it for free!” he exclaimed, as he rosined the bow and prepared to play.

Later I learned that the music store employee had refused to accept payment for the tuning, but my dad had handed him a ten-dollar bill anyway, “just to say thanks.” The employee had gone out of his way, my dad pointed out, and had been generous with his time just two days before Christmas, on undoubtedly one of his busiest days of the year.

…I’m writing about the gift of money over at The High Calling as part of their week’s series on Paying Well. Will you join me over there for the rest of this story? 

 

 

On Loss: Thanksgiving without a Loved One

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I leaned against the doorframe and surveyed the dim kitchen. Spotless countertops.  Pans tucked into cupboards. Unused wooden spoons, spatulas and ladles poised in the pitcher by the stove. A stack of stained potholders and oven mitts sat untouched in the drawer. Pizza boxes and paper plates were heaped in the trashcan, remnants of supper the night before.

Our family had eaten Thanksgiving dinner at my brother- and sister-in-law’s house earlier that afternoon. We didn’t speak of it much, but all of us were keenly aware of my mother-in-law’s glaring absence. She had died in September. This was our first Thanksgiving without her.

…I’m writing about walking through grief during the holidays over at The High Calling today. Join me there? 

When Your Kids Know What You Do for Work {or, When You live with Two Editors Under the Age of 10}

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They tossed their backpacks and lunch bags on the floor mats before tumbling into the mini-van in a flurry of sneakers, skinned knees and gangly limbs.

“So did you finish it yet?” my son Noah asked, as he slammed the door shut. It was a question I’d come to expect at pick-up time from one or the other of my two boys. Each day, Noah or Rowan asked me if I’d finished writing the book I’d been working on for months. Each day I looked at their expectant faces in the rearview mirror and answered the same way: “Nope. Close, but not yet.”

“What number are you on?” Noah asked. I was writing a compilation of biographical profiles entitled 50 Women Every Christian Should Know, and the boys liked to keep tabs on my progress. My editor didn’t have to worry that I would miss my deadline. Two micromanaging task-masters lived under my own roof.

…I’m over at The High Calling today, writing about working from home. Join me over there?

Follow Your Passion

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Mario returns to the Kitchen “Titus is going to be a boxer, Trystan is going to hunt chickens and deer, and I’m going to sell Mario Bros. stuff,” my seven-year-old son Rowan announces at dinner one night.

“Wow,” I laugh, “you and your friends sure have made some eclectic career choices.”

I pause.

“What about being a veterinarian?” I remind Rowan. “I thought you wanted to take care of animals when you grow up?”

“Nope,” he says, shaking his head. “I changed my mind. I want to run a Mario store now.”

A Mario store? I picture a hole-in-the-wall shop squeezed into a run-down strip mall; torn, sun-bleached posters of Mario characters scotch-taped to plate-glass windows.

…I’m writing about passion and career choices over at The High Calling today. Meet you over there?

Photo by David Lea. Used with permission.

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