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Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

wilderness

God is Not a God of Dead-Ends & Dashed Hopes

May 26, 2015 By Michelle

Back Patio Newsletter readers: you already read a version of this post, so feel free to skip this one. 🙂

 

Check this out – I snapped this picture with my phone on the way to the post office a few weeks ago:

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Yeah, it’s a publishing contract! I know! I know!

After eight long months of wilderness wandering, I’ve finally stepped onto a new path – though it’s not the path I anticipated or perhaps even initially desired.

You might remember that my original book proposal was turned down no fewer than 15 times over the past several months. The hard truth is that Spiritual Misfit simply didn’t sell well enough for publishers to risk another memoirish book from me right now, and so I had to put the dream of another memoirish book on the back burner. That was tough. Really tough.

But here’s the good news:

God is not a God of dead-ends and dashed hopes; he is a God of promise and new beginnings – though  we don’t always recognize those new beginnings at first.

A few months ago, my 50 Women editor Chad and I chatted, and as a result, we came up with an idea for a book. The problem, though, was that initially I didn’t want to write this particular book. This book felt too big for me; too smarty-pants; too important. I felt under-qualified and just plain not smart enough to write this book. I imagined a professor-type writing this book – someone who wore tweed and smoked a pipe and listened to opera on NPR.

So I sat on the idea. I didn’t write the proposal. I didn’t pursue it. I told my editor I would “think about it,” and then I swept the idea under the rug.

Until, that is, I happened to mention the idea to three close friends…all three of whom said, “Um, Michelle, I hate to break it to you, but I think God might be in this. I think this might be your next book.”

I hadn’t seen it that way at all.

My own ideas and expectations of what my next book should look like blinded me to the opportunity looking me square in the face. I didn’t recognize the opportunity, I didn’t see the path, because it didn’t look exactly the way I’d imagined and expected it should.

Thank God for friends who show us the path when our own expectations blind us to God’s abundant gifts.

Thank God for friends who encourage us when we feel inadequate, unworthy and afraid, who remind us that we don’t have to be a tweed-wearing, opera-listening, smarty-pants to write a particular kind of book.

Thank God for friends who say, “This, this right here, is the way; now walk in it.”

So yeah, I’m walking a brand-new path, friends – an unfamiliar, mountainous path, full of twists and turns and potholes.

I’m writing a full-length biography of Martin and Katharina Luther’s marriage – an “insider” look at their lives together, not just as reformer/theologian and run-away nun, but as husband and wife, man and woman. It will be released by Baker Books in early 2017 – just in time for the historic 500th anniversary of the Protestant Reformation.

Egad!!!!!

I am equal parts excited and terrified (actually, more like 90 percent terrified, 10 percent excited). My desk looks like this:

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The first time I went to the University of Nebraska-Lincoln library and gazed at the floor-to-almost-ceiling shelves of books, hundreds of books by and about Martin Luther (half of them written in German for pete’s sake), I cried. Hidden amid the stacks, I actually cried.

Because who am I, right? Who am I to write a book about Martin Luther when So. Many. Books. have already been written about him? What in the world do I have to say that could possibly matter? What can I possibly add to the thousands (millions?) of words already written?

Honestly? I don’t know. But I do know this:

Three friends, my husband, my editor and perhaps even God believe that I can and should write this book, that it does matter, that I will have something to say and that in its own little way, it will make a difference.

And so I said yes. I signed the contract, I dropped it off at the post office, and I checked out the first of dozens and dozens of books about Martin Luther from the University of Nebraska-Library. I stepped onto the path, even though the path doesn’t look like I thought or even hoped it would.

I stepped onto this unfamilar path, trusting and believing that God is not a God of dead-ends and dashed hopes, but a God of promise and new beginnings.

Q4U: Have your own expectations ever blinded you to a new opportunity? Could it be that you are looking at a new path right this minute and simply don’t recognize it because it doesn’t look like you expected or hoped it would? 

Filed Under: Martin and Katharina Luther, wilderness, writing Tagged With: Martin and Katharina Luther

When the Way Ahead Doesn’t Look Like You Envisioned

May 5, 2015 By Michelle

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I ran a brand-new route yesterday morning – to the lake and back instead of to the bridges and back. I’d like to tell you I made a Robert Frostian decision and intentionally chose the path less-traveled, but in reality, the choice to run a new route wasn’t a choice at all. My regular route, the one I’ve run three or four days a week for the last fourteen years, is closed for construction for the next several months. My choice was no run or new route. I begrudgingly chose the latter.

My new route is much less populated, but even the few people I did pass along the way didn’t wave or shout out a chipper greeting like the regulars I used to see on my old path. I missed the man who always waves hello, palm held out like a high-five. I missed the cackling red belly woodpecker perched in the hackberry tree; the cool dampness and the smell of rain beneath the concrete bridges; the rabbits munching clover.

The new path seemed longer, uglier, less friendly. It was definitely hillier. There was also more traffic, trash and city noise, fewer rabbits, less quiet. I didn’t like it; everything about it felt wrong. I’d prefer my old path, thank you very much.

These last eight months I’ve written on and off about my journey through the wilderness, as I’ve wrestled with and wondered about where God might be leading me next. The good news is that I am beginning to see a clearing ahead, an opening, a way through the tangle of branches and brush. The bad news is that the path that’s been revealed to me is an unfamilar one. It’s not the path I imagined for myself, and it’s probably not the one I would have chosen, had all things worked out exactly as I had planned and envisioned.

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Grass Path Prairie edited

This new path I’m on is a lot like that new running route I ran yesterday. The terrain feels unfamiliar under my feet – bumpier, uneven, unpredictable. Hills loom tall and formidable ahead of me on the horizon. I miss what I know, the landmarks and milestones that remind me that I am moving in the right direction. I’m less sure of myself, fearful of what will be revealed around the next corner. I find myself wishing for the old path, the one that’s comfortable and well-traveled.

Yesterday, at the midway point in my run, I rested for a few seconds at the top of a hill. Leaning with my hands on my knees, breathing hard, a stitch sharp in my side, I watched a bird hop amid the tall grass, yellow breast bright like a blooming dandelion. His sweet trill chimed through the damp breeze, answered by another farther off. It was a Meadowlark, one of my favorites,  a bird I never saw, not even once, in the fourteen years I ran the other route.

I watched the Meadowlark hunt for insects for a few seconds while I caught my breath. And then I turned and ran downhill, toward home, with the wind at my back.

Filed Under: wilderness Tagged With: when you're in the wilderness

No Doesn’t Necessarily Mean a Closed Door

April 16, 2015 By Michelle

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? 

Filed Under: 50 Women Every Christian Should Know, The High Calling, when God says no, wilderness Tagged With: 50 Women Every Christian Should Know, The High Calling, When God says no, when you're in the wilderness

The Bittersweet Truth of Palm Sunday

March 31, 2015 By Michelle

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After church on Sunday Rowan asked me if Palm Sunday was a happy day or a sad day. I understand his confusion. I sort of feel the same way.

On one hand, there’s a feeling of celebration and joy in the air. We wave our palm branches exuberantly over our heads; we shout “Hosanna! Hosanna!” There’s a palpable feeling of anticipation and expectance as we hear about Jesus’ triumphant entrance into Jerusalem. And of course, we, unlike the Israelites, have the benefit of knowing how the story turns out. We know Jesus’ entrance was indeed triumphant, though not in the way everyone first imagined.

That’s pretty much how I explained it to Rowan. I told him Palm Sunday is the official beginning of Holy Week, and that because we know about Jesus’ resurrection on Easter Sunday, we look forward to that day of celebration and thanksgiving with hopeful anticipation.

But I also told Rowan that sometimes we’re not much different than those ancient Israelites who draped their garments on the dirt road and shouted “Hosanna!” as Jesus rode into the city on the back of a humble donkey. Sometimes we have very clear expectations of how we think Jesus should work in our lives, and we quickly do an about-face when our expectations aren’t met exactly the way we imagined and hoped.

Like the Israelites, not only do we expect Jesus to save us, we expect him to save us in the way we think is best. 

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palm fan

I’ve been living the reality of Palm Sunday in real time these last few months. Time and time again I’ve planned out exactly how God was going to redeem my situation (A new publisher! A better book proposal! An unexpected book deal! A new job I’ll love even more than book writing!), and time and time again I’ve been left with my mouth agape and my hopes dashed when The Plan as I had envisioned it didn’t materialize.

I’m learning, though, I really am…albeit slowly. I’m learning the faith and trust to keep shouting, “Hosanna!” — “God, save me!” — even when his plan doesn’t seem to remotely resemble mine. Even when I don’t see his plan at all. I’m learning the faith and trust to keep waving my palm branch, even as my arm grows tired. I’m learning the faith and trust to keep laying my garments down in the road, even when I can’t see the way through the dust and the grit.

Maybe it’s because I have the benefit of hindsight. Maybe it’s because I can look back at the mountains and valleys and the twists and turns of my life up to this point and see with my own eyes how God has worked his good, often in the most unexpected, unanticipated ways. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen evidence, strong and clear, of the goodness of the Lord, not only in the land of the living, but in my very own land and my very own life.

Maybe it’s because I know how the Holy Week story turns out, and I believe it. Jesus was indeed crucified, died and was buried. But he also comes again.

Filed Under: faith, Palm Sunday, trust, wilderness Tagged With: Palm Sunday, when you're in the wilderness

Gifts of the Wilderness: Seeking Light

February 17, 2015 By Michelle

A wee note: I’ve switched up my posting schedule to Tuesdays and Thursdays (and the occasional Saturday) instead of Monday-Wednesday-Friday-Saturday. I’m dialing back a bit, and it feels right. You probably didn’t notice, but I felt compelled to tell you. 🙂

 

P1070915My friend Laura and I were chatting back and forth on Voxer last week, and I mentioned I was basking in a sun spot while I waited to pick up Rowan from school. I know the exact spot in which to sidle my mini-van to the curb so that I can rest with the engine idling and the heat blasting, close my eyes, tip back my head, and feel the sun warm on my face through the driver’s side window. That’s right, I hog the sun spot, every day. I purposefully get there early so I can snag it. I fully realize no other parent knows they are in a race for the rare and coveted sun spot, but I know, oh I know.

Anyway, after I told Laura about my sun spot she Voxed back and said she liked my habit of “finding the sun spots and basking in the light.” Which got me thinking about the unexpected gifts of the wilderness.

I don’t know that I am ordinarily a seeker of sun spots. Don’t get me wrong – I’ll snap up a good sun spot if one comes along, but I don’t typically seek them out. Yet walking through this period of uncertainty and angst these last few months, I find myself seeking these pockets of light through my day. It’s a survival mechanism, I think – to look for moments of unexpected joy, warmth and comfort, tiny oases of shimmering color in an otherwise drab landscape.

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Truth be told, not a lot happens in the wilderness. There’s some wandering, some questioning, some discernment, but mostly the wilderness is a time of waiting — waiting for God to reveal his plan, waiting for our circumstances to move in a discernible direction. There’s a lot of hunkering down, like the Israelites did in the desert — passing the time in their tents, waiting for God to lead them in a new direction. Time moves slowly in the wilderness, one day unfurling into the next, and the next, and the next.

I don’t love any of this. I’m a Triple Type A, Take Action kind of girl. Waiting? Hunkering? Abiding? Nope, not in my wheelhouse. Yet here I am – waiting, hunkering, abiding — and I’m discovering there are gifts to seek and embrace and rejoice in, even here. Even in the wilderness.

I think all the slowing, all the hunkering and abiding that goes hand in hand with the wilderness allows us the rare opportunity to slow down and notice. The barrenness of the wilderness compels us to seek out these small pockets of warmth and delight we might not typically have time for in an ordinary season of productivity.

And so I find myself moving toward the sun wherever I can find it on these drab, slow-moving days. On the sofa, with the stark winter light pouring through the dirty panes. In my car, heat blasting, sun streaming between skeleton tree branches. On the front step, the cold of the concrete seeping through the seat of my jeans, the sun warm on my face, chickadees calling from the pine tree.

Q4U: Tell me, where you are seeking and finding tiny oases of light and warmth these days?

Filed Under: slow, small moments, wilderness Tagged With: when you're in the wilderness

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For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a Triple Type A, “make it happen” (my dad’s favorite mantra) striver and achiever (I’m a 3 on the Enneagram, which tells you everything you need to know), but these days my striving looks more like sitting in silence on a park bench, my dog at my feet, as I slowly learn to let go of the false selves that have formed my identity for decades and lean toward uncovering who God created me to be.

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