Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

community

How to Build a Bigger Table

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I called Angel on a Wednesday morning for a “human interest” article I’d been assigned for my job at The Salvation Army. I had very little information about him, aside from the fact that he and his wife host community dinners every few months for residents in their apartment complex.

I was skeptical. It didn’t sound like much of a story.

Angel answered on the second ring, and when I told him why I was calling, he eagerly began to talk. I pressed my cell phone to my ear and frantically scribbled into my notebook. Angel talked fast, and at times, I struggled to understand his words through his accent. But one thing was immediately clear: Angel had a story.

As a young boy living in San Antonio, Angel had learned to cook in order to survive. Homeless at age seven, he’d lived under a bridge and had panhandled on the streets, pooling his resources with other homeless children and adults, together cooking the food they’d gathered over an open fire.

Today Angel and his wife, Christy, live in a Section 8 apartment in Kearney, where every few months they invite all the residents in their building to a home-cooked dinner. The morning I spoke to Angel he was preparing to make “Mexican goulash.”

The idea for the community dinners was sparked three years ago at Thanksgiving, when Angel realized many of his neighbors didn’t have anyone with whom to share the holiday meal. More than 30 people showed up for that first Thanksgiving dinner, which Angel and Christy, both of whom are disabled, paid for with their food stamps. When staff at their local Salvation Army Corps heard about the community dinners, they donated additional food to help offset the costs.

The dinners are a lot of work, Angel admitted. And they aren’t perfect. Sometimes disagreements break out; people argue. But overall, the rewards are worth the effort.

“I like to watch the faces of the people as they eat,” Angel said. “It warms my heart to see everyone together.” He appreciates that the dinners draw residents, many of whom are elderly and isolated, out of their apartments to connect with one another. “None of us really knew each other before this,” he said.

Nowadays Angel and Christy don’t even have to post notices about upcoming dinners in the elevator or the laundry room. “People just smell the food and they show up,” Angel said.

Last week I sat in a pew at First Plymouth Church and listened as author and pastor John Pavlovitz urged the audience to “build a bigger table.” Pavlovitz was talking about the practice of radical hospitality — of broadening our circles to include people who don’t look like us, vote like we do, practice the same faith, make the same lifestyle choices or celebrate the same cultural traditions.

Hours after Pavlovitz had finished his talk, I was still mulling over his words. The idea of “building a bigger table” sounded promising and inspiring when preached from the pulpit, but the truth was, I had trouble envisioning what it would look like from a practical perspective. “Where would I even start?” I wondered. “What does ‘building a bigger table’ look like in actual, everyday life?”

Then I remembered Angel, who showed me exactly what building a bigger table looks like in actual, everyday life. Fix an enormous pot of Mexican goulash, invite your neighbors — every last one of them — to your table, and eat together.

It really is that simple.

This post first appeared in the Lincoln Journal Star on April 13, 2019.

Why Small Talk {even about the weather} Is More Important Than You Might Think

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Recently I was reviewing the daily listings I had recorded in my gratitude journal during January, and I noticed something I didn’t expect to see. Nearly every day my list of three or four “gratitudes” included at least one interaction with another person:

Catching up with Summer over coffee.

Stopping on the bike path to pet Kona and chat with Mary Jo.

A friendly conversation with the Hobby Lobby cashier.

Laughing with friends at Trivia Night.

Reconnecting with Kelli.

Chatting about the cold snap with the guy at the birdseed store.

I was surprised. The truth is, I’m not the most social person you’ll ever meet. Given the choice between time spent with others and time spent alone, I’ll typically opt for solitude. Yet in examining the pages of my journal, it was obvious that even the briefest interaction with another person, including a stranger, had been less an empty exchange of pleasantries and more a legitimate bright spot in my day.

It was clear from the variety of people and the types of interactions that neither the topic nor the duration of the conversation were as important as the simple act of connecting with another human being.

That said, I was also a little dismayed. Was my life so dull, I wondered, that making small talk with a stranger was enough to qualify as an entry on my gratitude list?

Turns out, a growing body of research supports the notion that small talk benefits us more than we might think.

In a 2014 study published in the “Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin,” researchers revealed that daily interactions with casual acquaintances or even strangers contributed to day-to-day satisfaction and contentment. Dr. Elizabeth Dunn, professor of psychology at the University of British Columbia, contends that people who reach out to strangers feel a significantly greater sense of belonging.

“It’s not that talking to the barista is better than talking to your husband,” said Dunn. “But interactions with more peripheral members of our social network actually matter for our well-being.”

Others social science researchers note that small talk with acquaintances and strangers increases our empathy, helps us find common ground and bonds us with others.

Examining my gratitude list for January reminded me that we need each other not only during difficult seasons, but also amid the ordinary comings and goings of our daily lives.

We need to see others and to be seen.

We need to be present to others and know that others are present with us.

We need to listen to others and to be heard.

These simple interactions might seem trivial on the surface, but they are important because they remind us that we are part of something bigger than ourselves – individual threads woven together to create a vibrant tapestry.

Last week my neighbor, Marian, stopped by my house to drop off a book. We chatted for a few minutes in my living room, our conversation meandering from topic to topic: books we’d read recently, her future travel plans, my dog’s languid disposition and, of course, the weather.

It wasn’t a long conversation – in fact, Marian didn’t even take off her coat as she perched on the edge of the wing chair – and yet, after she left, I felt an inexplicable lightness in both my body and my spirit.

Later that night, before I clicked off the bedside lamp, I penned a few more entries into my gratitude journal. Sure enough Afternoon chat with Marian made the day’s list.

This post was first published in the Lincoln Journal Star on February 9.
Photo by Brooke Cagle on Unsplash

Community as a Courageous Act of Peace {and a book giveaway}

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Truly, I have never seen so much food at a single meal. Not on my mother-in-law’s Thanksgiving table. Not even at my Aunt Maureen’s annual Easter smorgasbord. The feast was epic.

A few weeks ago our friend Azzat mentioned that he and Afia wanted to host “a feast,” as the Yezidis say, as a way to thank all the people who had pitched in to set up their apartment before they arrived in Lincoln as refugees nearly two years ago.

“Invite everyone,” Azzat declared. He and Afia also insisted that no one bring a thing – not a bottle of wine or a liter of soda, not a bag of chips or a plate of brownies. “We want to do everything,” he said.

Sixteen of us squeezed into our friends’ townhouse living room on Sunday afternoon. We sat on the floor, our legs pulled in close so as to keep our socked feet clear of the plastic tablecloth that had been spread out on the carpet. Dish after dish was placed on the tablecloth: five roasted chickens, several huge tin foil pans of biryani and couscousi, 16 bowls of soup, 16 bowls of salad and a stack of naan so thick it could have doubled as an extra chair in a pinch.

We passed dishes back and forth, heaping spoonfuls of savory food high on one another’s plates, tearing pieces of soft naan, handing bowls around and across the makeshift table. I swear we ate for an hour and a half straight, and all the while, as friends new and old laughed and passed more plates, I couldn’t stop smiling. The photo my friend Kristen snapped with her iPhone captures my glee. In the picture, I’m grinning ear to ear like a fool, literally clapping my hands in sheer delight.

Our friends’ journey to Lincoln has been far from perfect. They wouldn’t have chosen it if they’d had any choice at all — that I know for sure. They left their beloved homeland, their culture, virtually all their possessions and most of their dearest friends and family to begin a new life free from the threat of ISIS, yet missing so many precious pieces of home. They have lived, and still live, daily heartbreak. They have lived, and still live, daily struggle.

And yet, in spite of incomprehensible hardship and loss, time and time again they give wholly of themselves and their resources to us. They don’t even think twice. They invite us and these friends of ours, strangers to them, into their own living room, they spread a table for us and lay out a feast and they lavish all of us with hospitality, generosity, warmth and love. They pour us the best wine, they cook for five hours to create all their best dishes (intentionally making extra so they can send every single one of their guests home with a plate of leftovers), they serve us, smiling and brushing off our praise like it’s all so no big deal.

But it is a big deal. As author Shannan Martin would say, this hospitality, this intentional walk toward, rather than away from another, is a very big deal.

“Offering ourselves as a kind-hearted presence in a world that has forgotten the meaning of community is a courageous act of peace,” writes Shannan in her beautiful book, The Ministry of Ordinary Places.

I love that, and I think that’s exactly why this beautiful family continues to astonish me. The ones considered outsiders and “other” by so many, the ones who arrived here from halfway around the world, the ones who have little compared to most of us, continuously offer their whole selves to us, welcoming us, embracing us and reminding us of what true community looks like.

Their kind-hearted presence in our lives and their generosity and investment in us is truly a courageous act of peace….and of love.

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I can’t think of a better book to give away with this post about community than Shannan Martin’s new release, The Ministry of Ordinary Places. If you don’t know Shannan, get thee to her website, pronto. She is of of my favorite writers, hands-down. I loved her first book, Falling Free, so much, I wrote about it in my own upcoming book. And I think The Ministry of Ordinary Places is even better! This book will make you laugh out loud and it will bring tears to your eyes, almost within the same paragraph. AND it will convict you in all the best ways about the power, beauty and gift of living with our ordinary neighbors in our ordinary places.

To be eligible for the drawing, please leave a comment telling us about one small thing a neighbor or friend did for you that made all the difference. I will draw one name at random on Monday, October 15 and will notify the winner by email.

Why the Plural Pronouns in the Lord’s Prayer Aren’t a Fluke

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Not long ago, I took it upon myself to edit the words of the Lord’s Prayer. That’s right: I rewrote the prayer written by Jesus himself. It wasn’t a complete rewrite, mind you; I simply tweaked the pronouns.

I decided the prayer would work better for me with singular rather than plural pronouns. For example, “Our father, who art in heaven,” became “My father, who art in heaven.” Likewise, “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us,” became “Forgive me my trespasses, as I forgive those who trespass against me,” and so on.

After all, I reasoned, the whole purpose of faith and religion is to encourage a personal relationship with God and, ultimately, personal salvation, right? What, then, was the point of praying in a plural voice? The “us” aspect of the prayer seemed to complicate the matter.

The funny thing was, I couldn’t do it. Every time I tried to pray my new individualized version of the Lord’s Prayer, I tripped over the words. Suddenly, the lines I’ve known by heart for decades refused to flow. My mind went blank, and I forgot whole sentences of the prayer I’d been praying since the second grade. Without the familiar plural pronouns in their rightful places, the prayer didn’t work.

The reason for this, of course, is the fact that, in the same way any habit is formed, the repetition of the same 70 words traveling the same neural pathway day in and day out over decades of recitation had firmly etched the Lord’s Prayer into my brain. Old habits die hard.

That said, though, the failed experiment gave me the unexpected opportunity to consider the question of why Jesus taught his disciples to prayer the Lord’s Prayer in the plural in the first place.

Turns out, the plural pronouns weren’t a mistake or even a fluke. Jesus taught his disciples, and us, to pray the Lord’s Prayer in the plural voice because our lives here on Earth aren’t about you and me individually, but rather, about you and me – us – here together.

Jesus knew that community is an integral component of faith. He knew that we need one another and that, ultimately, we are better together. When I pray the Lord’s Prayer, both alone and with others in communal worship, I am reminded that my relationship with God extends beyond myself. I am reminded that all of us together are Christ’s body. My daily bread is given, and I give daily bread to another. I am forgiven, and I forgive another.

Truth be told, I like my version of the Lord’s Prayer better, because on most days, I’d rather it be all about me. Living in community isn’t always easy. Our co-workers vote for the candidate we don’t like. Our neighbors think Creeping Charlie is a fine substitute for grass. Our family members leave their dirty socks on the living room floor (I’m speaking hypothetically, of course). Our friends hurt us, our loved ones betray us.

I don’t necessarily want to share my bread. I don’t necessarily want to forgive. I don’t necessarily want to see “the other side” of an argument.

Which is exactly why I need Jesus’ version rather than my own version of the Lord’s Prayer. I need to be reminded again and again as I pray the familiar words that it’s not just about me. It’s about us.

This post originally ran in the Lincoln Journal Star on July 14, 2018.

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Why We Need Both Solitude and Community

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Two weeks ago my husband and our two boys spent spring break in Minnesota. I stayed home with only the dog and the lizard for company in order to prepare for a speaking engagement at the end of the week.

I’d looked forward to my week alone for a long time. The thought of hours of quiet and uncluttered kitchen counters made me giddy with anticipation. I stocked my freezer with Lean Cuisines, borrowed a stack of novels from the library, purchased a large bar of dark chocolate and a bottle of Malbec, and tuned the television to HGTV. I could hardly wait for my troupe to hit the road on Sunday morning. As the car rounded the corner, I waved from the front door with a grin on my face.

The first few hours were all I had imagined. I took a nap in a square of sunshine pooling on the sofa. I ate my Asian Chicken with Peanut Sauce sitting on a barstool at the kitchen counter with a book in my hand. I watched four HGTV programs back-to-back.

But by Monday afternoon my giddiness had ebbed, and by Tuesday I had fallen into a funk.

I began to space out my errands so I’d have something to do each day. I talked aloud to the dog on our afternoon walks, oblivious of what passersby might think. I was lonely. I missed my people, even the pre-teen who tended to talk at the decibel level of a Boeing 747 before I had my morning coffee.

Turns out, I needed community more than I had thought.

Forester Peter Wohlleben, author of The Hidden Life of Trees, notes that contrary to popular belief, trees that grow closely together in a forest are more likely to survive and thrive than those with ample space between them. Rather than competing for natural resources, trees – especially those of the same species – synchronize their rate of photosynthesis and divide their water and nutrients via their root systems so that all can be equally successful.

In fact, even sick or weak trees are nourished by their neighbors, because the trees know that they are only as strong individually as the entire forest as a whole.

As I learned from my week alone, human beings are more like trees than we might expect. God knew that human beings, like trees, thrive in community. We need each other for nourishment, connection, and support. This is exactly why God created Eve as a companion to Adam.

“It is not good for the man to be alone,” God observed (Genesis 2:18). Even with the great variety of plants and animals in the Garden of Eden, God realized Adam needed a like-minded companion with whom to share the triumph and travail of life on earth.

Silence and solitude are important because they offer us the space and time to connect with ourselves and God. Likewise, community is equally vital, offering us companionship and, like the trees in a forest, nourishment and resources to sustain us. The key, I’ve learned, is not to overindulge in one at the expense of the other, but to aim for a healthy balance of both.

This post first ran in the Lincoln Journal Star on March 26, 2017.