Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

trust

What My Nudie Kid Taught Me about Surrender and Trust

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I wrote my memoir Spiritual Misfit over a period of two years when my kids were quite young. It was a time in which my spiritual life and my faith grew exponentially, and much of what I learned God taught me through my children and through the hard lessons of parenting. Today I’m sharing one of the more humorous stories from the book (although it wasn’t all that funny in real-time), about how an incident with my son Noah (who was about five at the time) taught me about surrender and trust. This excerpt is from Chapter 10: Surrendering the Fear:

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It was the kind of day in early spring that made you hold your breath in anticipation, a day just warm enough to entice with the barely plausible thought of ice cream. The kids and I sat outside Dairy Queen under the crab apple tree, contentedly licking our soft-serve cones as fragile blossoms dropped like snowflakes onto the asphalt. The air was rich with the scent of recent rain and new green, the concrete bench still so cool it seeped a wintry chill through the seat of my jeans.

Noah had finished his cone in record time and was leaping from one bench to another, while Rowan dripped rivulets of chocolate down his arm and into the crease of his elbow. I had just turned toward him with a paper napkin when Rowan burst out laughing and pointed, rainbow sprinkles falling like confetti from his fingers.

When I looked up, I saw Noah standing atop a bench with his jeans and Bob the Builder briefs wrenched down to his knees. He was waggling his penis in the direction of a mini-van parked at the drive-through, one arm arched above his head like a rodeo porn star. The husband in the driver’s seat was clueless, busy balancing a carton of Blizzards, but his wife was aghast, slack-jawed as she stared at my son.

“Noah! What are you doing?” I screeched. “Pull up your pants right now before a cop drives by and arrests you for indecent exposure!” [I admit, not my very best parental response ever] He froze for a split-second, eyes wide, before yanking his pants up.

We didn’t rehash the incident on the way home. I figured my dramatic reaction had been sufficient to convince Noah that public penis-waggling was inappropriate. A month later, though, as I hunched over the keyboard in our basement office one night, Noah appeared, standing behind me in his dinosaur pjs.

“Am I going to jail?” he blurted, his eyes filling with tears. “Am I going to jail because of Dairy Queen?”

“What in the world are you talking about?” I asked, faintly irritated that it was after nine o’clock and he was still awake and conversing with me. Turned out, of course, he was referring to, as he put it, “When I was nudie at Dairy Queen.” He had mulled over the incident and my rash words each night for a full 28 days before finally gathering the courage to voice his fears.

I explained to Noah that I had overstated the punishment — overreaction, Brad once wryly noted, is my modus operandi. I assured him that the police would not arrest a five-year-old for pulling his pants down at Dairy Queen, and then I apologized, more than once, and hugged him tight.

After he had gone back to bed, though, I couldn’t stop thinking about the incident. I felt horrible and irresponsible for terrifying him. What kind of mother was I, anyway? Wasn’t I supposed to protect my child from the evils of the world, to nurture his fragile psyche rather than single-handedly destroy it? Shivering in the chilly basement that night, I felt overwhelmed, inadequate and vastly unqualified in my role as a parent.

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In that moment I realized that Noah’s fragility mirrored my own. His fear and powerlessness illustrated to me how incredibly ill-equipped we are to face on our own whatever the big, mean, scary world tosses our way. And just as Noah turned to me in a moment of desperate hopelessness and fear, I knew that I could and would have to turn to God in the same way. Noah had tried to conquer his fear himself, lying in bed each night sifting through his terror. But in the end he couldn’t do it; he had to unburden himself in the face of what to him was an insurmountable problem. Likewise, in a strange twist of events that night in the basement, I learned that I needed to do the same. When the world threatened to crush me with hopelessness and fear, I needed to turn to God and put my trust in him.

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Sitting in the dark, cold basement that night, I turned the whole ugly mess — all my fears, all my insecurities in parenting — over to God. I realized then that God loves me in spite of my blurting and blundering, in spite of my overreactions and foot-in-the-mouth moments. I realized that God forgives even my worse parenting decisions, and, if I let him, can ease even my worst fears.

Yet I also knew, even in the midst of that unburdening, that surrender and trust wouldn’t ever be easy for me. My very nature battles it. I understood that I would have to repeat this process of surrender and trust again and again, possibly throughout my entire lifetime.

But I also understood that I had a choice. The choice to trust was all mine.

What To Do When God Tells You to Trust

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I laid awake under the light blanket, the sharp scent of marsh and salt and sea wafting through the open window. The house slept, blinds whirring in the light breeze like a buzzing bee,  shadows from the streetlamp sashaying across the walls and ceiling. And in that quiet moment, two simple words dropped into my mind, boldly, confidently.

Trust. Me.  

I’m not one to look for or even put much validity in signs. I’m a realist to the core, which means my default is skepticism, doubt. When people tell me they’ve heard from God or received a sign from him, I don’t doubt it’s true — for them. But I don’t ever expect God will speak so obviously and clearly to me.

Yet in that moment as the shadows skittered and the moist sea air scented the room, I knew this much for sure: those two words I heard ping into my head near midnight in a rented beach house? Those two words were straight from God. I knew this like I know my own name.

He spoke two words to me as clearly as any words I’ve ever heard out loud.

Trust me, he said.

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This summer I spent July and August waiting to hear from my publisher about a new book proposal. The process moved slowly, from editor to editorial board to publishing committee. I was impatient for an answer. That night, as I lay awake in our vacation rental, I assumed God was addressing that waiting period. I figured he was saying, “Trust Me in this process, with this proposal.”

That night I had God all figured out.

And I was wrong.

God wasn’t talking about those summer months, that time during which my book proposal was being considered by my publisher. No, God was referring to now. This time. This wilderness — the period of uncertainty after the publisher said no. The period during which I can’t possibly see around the next bend. This season in which, for the first time in years, the future is frightfully unclear. God said Trust Me for this time. For now.

On that sultry July night in Rhode Island God saw the wilderness season that was coming. And so he gave me those two simple but powerful words, knowing I would remember them and remember the night he spoke them to me so clearly.

Strangely, most days I am trusting him. And for a girl who has always had her ducks in a row, her path clearly marked, her route determined ahead of time, the fact that I am trusting God in this season of uncertainty is nothing short of a miracle.

True, some days I falter. Some days I whine and demand an answer and fret late into the night. Some days I succumb to that panicky urge to “do something,” to do anything that might fix this situation, eradicate the uncertainty, set a clear path. On those hard days, I remember the words God gave me in July. And I repeat them under my breath like a mantra. Trust me. Trust me. Trust me. 

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Most days, though, miraculously, I am doing just as he said. I am waiting, abiding, with bold and hopeful confidence. I am keeping my eyes open and my ears tuned in eager expectation of the new thing he is about to do. Is doing.

Trust me, he said.

I will, I answered.

I am.

What You Learn about God When You Leap

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“It shouldn’t be hagiography,” I heard him say on the other end of the line, and I nodded, replying, “Oh right, of course. Yeah, that totally makes sense.”

That’s what I said to my brand-new editor during our very first telephone conversation to discuss the 50 Women book.

But what I actually thought was this: “Hagi-wha-wha-what??!!! “

After we hung up I sat on the floor and stared at my notebook. I’d scrawled hageography in the middle of the white page (I’d spelled it wrong, of course), with about sixteen questions marks after it.

Should I quit, I wondered? Should I email Rachelle and tell her they’d better find someone else to write the book, someone who knows what hagiography means for crying out loud? I mean clearly I’m not the right person to write this book. Clearly I’m not smart enough. I had to fake intelligence in my very first conversation with my editor for heaven’s sake. Surely that can’t be a good sign.

I didn’t email Rachelle that day. I didn’t quit the book before I’d even begun. Instead, I Googled hagiography (hagiography: biography of saints or venerated persons), and then I prayed desperately for wisdom and guidance and took a leap into a project I felt hugely unqualified to tackle.

That was two years ago. Tomorrow 50 Women Every Christian Should Know releases, and boy am I glad I didn’t quit when I was feeling afraid and insecure. I’m so glad I took a deep breath, put my trembling fingers to the keyboard and took a leap into the unknown – even when I felt vastly unqualified, even when I wasn’t sure I would succeed.

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I know I’ve said it here before, but it bears repeating: sometimes God asks us to leap – to step outside of our comfort zone, to get uncomfortable, unsure of ourselves, afraid.

Because you know what? When we leap, we trust.

When I’m all comfortable and cozy in my routine, I can tell you six ways to Sunday that I trust God, but that’s because it’s easy. Real trust happens when I take a leap of faith. When I’m insecure, doubtful, hesitant, afraid, awkward. When I don’t know what in the world I’m doing.

Real trust happens when we’re not in control.

That day on the phone, when my editor dropped the word hagiography into our conversation all casual like he was talking about the ham and cheese Subway sandwich he’d eaten for lunch, I was not in control. I had a decision to make right then and there. I could retreat into my comfortable routine where nothing was threatening or foreign and I felt sufficiently smart. Or I could take a leap of faith into the uncomfortable unknown.

I leaped. And I’m glad. Because God held my hand the whole way.

Linking with Kelli’s community, Unforced Rhythms of Grace, today.

When You Forget to Practice What You’ve Preached

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Two weeks ago I arrived at the Carol Joy Holling Center for a women’s retreat. I was the keynote speaker slated for a two-hour session on Saturday evening. I’d prepared weeks for my talk, had my Bible packed into my suitcase, my notes tucked into my bag. I felt calm and cool and in control.

Until I checked in, that is.

“I have a really big favor to ask you,” the conference coordinator said as she handed me my room key card. “The worship leader has the flu. Do you think you could do the message in church tomorrow, too?”

Um, thank you, no. Please excuse me while I high-tail toward home. Best of luck to you.

That’s not what I actually said. But it sure is what I wanted to say.

Instead, I stood frozen in place like a deer caught in the headlights. And then I stuttered and stumbled and fumbled a response. “Sure, um, yeah, I guess I could do that I suppose…if you really don’t have anyone else.”

She didn’t have anyone else.

You should know, public speaking is not my gig. I gear myself up big-time every time I talk in front of an audience. I prepare like I’m about to testify at a Senate Committee Hearing, type up pages of notes in a gargantuan font, practice at least a dozen times in my kitchen and in my mini-van and in the shower, and pray like the end times are breathing down my neck.

Because frankly, public speaking feels like the end times to me.

So to know I was going to have to speak to an audience with little to no preparation, in church no less, after I’d already led a two-hour session the night before? Let’s just say I went to my room, closed the door, and did some heavy Lamaze.

Oh, and did I mention the theme for the retreat that weekend? Fearless. I know. God’s a real comedian sometimes.

That night, after I’d finished my evening session, I sat on my bed and tried to prepare for the morning’s message. I looked at the order for worship. I read the Scripture readings. I mentioned to the Holy Spirit that now would be an opportune time to make his presence known. I waited. I checked Facebook. I re-read the Scriptures and begged the Holy Spirit again.

And I got nothing. That night when I went to bed, I didn’t have a single note scribbled onto the conference notepad. I didn’t have one iota of what I might say.

The next morning when I woke up (miracle number one: that I slept at all), I had a pretty good inkling of what I was going to say (that’s miracle number two, by the way).

You see, I’d spent two hours on Saturday evening talking about all the ways fear sabotages our relationship with God. I’d talked about the fact that a lack of trust always runs like a quiet stream beneath our fear. And I’d outlined four spiritual practices we can turn to when we are afraid: name it, pray about it, connect with community, practice gratitude.

But when I came face-to-face with fear myself? I ignored every last word I’d preached just two hours before. I made all the mistakes I’d warned against, forgot all the Scripture I’d read aloud to the ladies gathered around the room, and failed to employ a single spiritual practice I’d recommended. When fear pushed me around like a bossy bully, I folded my cards and slunk away with my tail between my legs.

And so that’s the message I offered to the ladies who sat in church the next morning. I stood at the podium with my legs shaking in my boots and my scrap of notes trembling in my sweaty hands, and I admitted that I’d failed. I admitted that it was a whole lot easier to talk about fear, even teach about fear, then it was to stand in it and face it myself. I admitted that I’d neglected to employ any of the four spiritual practices I’d recommended to them, and I’d failed to trust God.

It wasn’t the most eloquent message ever. Nor was it well-crafted or particularly poignant. In fact, I’d even read the wrong Scripture, twice, the night before in bed, so my message wasn’t even based on the correct reading. And honestly, I don’t know if the ladies got anything out of it or not.

But I don’t think that was God’s point. I think God wanted to illustrate to me that I can talk the good talk about fear and fearlessness and trust and prayer, and I can prepare for hours and type up my large-font notes and wear my fancy speaking shoes. But until I come to him in trust, it’s all just chasing after the wind.

Have you ever had an experience that showed you that you were not practicing what you preached? 

Authentic You: When You Are Afraid of Being Unliked {day 16}

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Okay, confession. That blog post I wrote yesterday was more a prayer for myself than a proclamation. The last part, where I wrote, “Look out and up at God and step boldly into openness”? Yeah. I’m not there yet. It may be where I want to be. It may be where I am on some days. But generally, not there yet.

On Wednesday afternoon I sat at the kitchen counter moseying around Facebook. Brad was home from work early, and when he saw I was on social media, he asked if I’d finished the edits on the memoir manuscript yet. “I did” I answered, looking over the screen of my laptop at him.”I finished about an hour ago. But I’m afraid to send it in to my editor.”

Brad stopped shuffling papers and looked at me. “You’re the only person I know who’s not afraid to write a whole book about herself, but then is afraid to send in the revision of the book.”

I laughed. It didn’t make a bit of sense. Until suddenly it did.

You see, I’ve had the opportunity to immerse myself up to my eyeballs in this book over the last week and a half, and as I read it with fresh eyes, my own book scared me.

It was one thing to write this book six years ago when publishing it was only a pie-in-the-sky dream. It was one thing to offer it to my husband and my sister and my best friend to read — people who know me and love me in real life. But as I sat hunched over my laptop poised to send those final revisions back to my editor, reality hit hard. People who don’t know me are going to read this book. And they are going to judge me. They will draw conclusions not based on the real me, the real-life, flesh-and-blood, I-have-good-qualities-and-bad-qualities me, but based on the me-on-paper. And can I just tell you? The me on paper isn’t very pretty. It’s authentic. But it isn’t pretty.

“I look like a total wenchbag in this book,” I lamented to Brad Wednesday afternoon. “I mean, I can be a total wenchbag, but I’m not a total wenchbag all the time, you know? But people might not be able to see that, they might not be able to tell just from what’s written on these pages that I’m not a total wenchbag all the time.”

It sure was a lot easier to write an authentic book before I ever knew it would be published.

The trouble is, I want to be liked. Above all, I want to be liked. Yes, I want to be honest and authentic. Yes, I want to tell you the whole story, even the icky, gritty, unsavory parts. But I want you to like me in the end.

That’s why yesterday’s post about living a wide-open, spacious life and looking up and out and stepping into the open was more of a prayer than a proclamation. Because I’m not there yet. I’m still afraid. As I sit with my finger hovering over the “send” button, I still don’t fully trust God.

My favorite writing quote ever – I have it taped to my desk:
“If something inside you is real, we will probably find it interesting and it will probably be universal. So you must risk placing the real emotion at the center of your work. Write straight into the emotional center of things. Write toward vulnerability. Don’t worry about appearing sentimental. Worry about being unavailable; worry about being absent or fraudulent. Risk being unliked. Tell the truth as you understand it.”    — Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird 

 

This is my 31-ish day series on authenticity. Click here if you are a glutton for punishment and want to start reading the series from the beginning.