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? 

 

 

When Paying Goes Beyond the Issue of Money

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“Whoa!” my nine-year-old son Rowan gasped, leaning forward to get a closer look at the meter. “We’ve already spent five dollars, and we haven’t even started driving yet!”

I leaned across my two kids in the backseat and whispered to my husband what our friend had told us the night before. “Remember, we don’t need to tip more than ten percent,” I said into Brad’s ear. “That’s the going rate.” Brad nodded as the taxi lurched into Madison Avenue traffic.

In the nine hours we were in New York City that day, my family of four spent over four hundred dollars, which included Metro North train fare, admission to the Museum of Natural History, lunch in the museum’s cafeteria, coffee and snacks at Starbucks’, admission to the eighty-sixth floor of the Empire State Building and one cab fare.

But here’s what came to light when I looked more specifically at what we spent that day:

I was willing to hand over 100 dollars for a thirty-second elevator ride and six minutes on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. However I was not willing to offer our cab driver a twenty percent tip, which is what my husband and I ordinarily tip waiters, hairdressers, pizza delivery guys and other people in the service industry.

…I’m writing over at The High Calling about what is sometimes a touchy subject: money…and how much to pay the people who work for us. Will you join me over there? I learned an awful lot about myself writing this piece. 

When Failure Leads to a Better Fit

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DSC_0002(4)“I really don’t want to do this,” I whispered to my husband, Brad, as he turned the minivan into the packed parking lot at the Center for People in Need.

I was leery of another family service opportunity. A few months prior we’d quit delivering Meals on Wheels because our two boys had complained so bitterly about boredom, car sickness and the pungent scent of broccoli that had wafted from the food trays stacked in the back of the mini-van. Exasperated and tired of arguing with them every few weeks during the two hours it took to complete our assigned route, I finally sent our resignation notice to Rhoda, the program coordinator.

Although Rhoda graciously let me off the hook, acknowledging that not every serving opportunity was a good fit for every family, quitting Meals on Wheels had left me feeling like a bad parent and a bad Christian. I wondered, as the four of us scuttled through the double doors of the food distribution center, if this volunteer initiative would end in failure as well.

…I’m writing about serving with my family today over at The High Calling for their social justice series. Will you join me for the rest of the story over there?

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?