Spiritual Misfit (a Review and FREE GIVEAWAY)

Michelle DeRusha's debut book, Spiritual Misfit: A Memoir of Uneasy Faith, was the first package to arrive at our new house.  As a member of her launch team, I received a free copy and started reading it late at night while we waited for the phone and internet to be set up.

In my mind, I read it by candlelight, because at that point we had very little power in the house, but really I suspect there was a lamp or something shedding light.  It was an appropriate setting, as Michelle writes candidly and humorously about her own slow, uneasy journey out of darkness and into light.

Here are three things I liked about this book:

1. It's truly funny.  Yes, that's right, Michelle is a Christian and she's terribly, terribly funny.  Not funny in a cheesy, naive way, but funny in that truly human way that emerges when one dares to strip away all pretense, to expose the depths of one's own deep humanity.  Telling her story, Michelle does this again and again - honest with herself and honest with her readers, she gives us all hope as we laugh til we cry, seeing ourselves through grace light.

2. It's real about the tensions between faith and doubt.  Michelle grew up in church, but gradually drifted to a place of unbelief, where God no longer fit.  Never finding the freedom to ask questions, she simply decided to stop talking all together about God, about faith, about doubt.

Moving to the America's heartland only intensified her spiritual dis-ease.  Living in the land of bible and bread, Michelle did her best to blend in, hiding her doubts.  Finally, "hitting rock bottom" Michelle decided to fess up - facing fear head-on, she shares her deep doubts with her local pastor and begins to start again at square one, re-exploring the terrain of faith as an adult.

What I appreciate most about this section of the book is the way Michelle writes about the tension between knowing and believing and the choice to give belief a chance.  As she writes,

Almost as instantly as my heart told me I had experienced a blessing, a connection with God, my head squashed such a preposterous idea. . . . After twenty years of unbelief, doubt had become a habit. . . . The truth is, once I began to question my doubts at least as much as I questioned my toddler-step, doddering faith, I began to see small miracles everywhere (82-3).

3. It's not a "how-to."  Michelle resists the temptation to turn her life story into a three-step process finding faith and for this, I'm grateful.  As it stands, Spiritual Misfit's deeply personal nature is what will give it a nearly universal appeal for those losing and finding faith.  In shedding the masks and rules, Michelle dives in at the deep end and finds a way to float in the midst of faith and doubt.  Lifted by the grace she comes to know and trust, she invites us also to dive in, to open up, and look closely for the footprints of God in our own stories, our own lives.

Order Spiritual Misfit HERE. 
Visit Michelle's Blog to learn more about the book, read advance praise and peruse quotes.   

Interested in joining a book club discussion of Spiritual Misfit, either online (fb) or in person?  Let me know via the comments section below and stay tuned for further announcements here and on the A Field of Wildflowers Facebook page.

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Spring is the Gospel Season

It started with a crocus or two.  Delicate blossoms like bright purple tissue paper, twisted.  

Then, later, the daffodils bloomed.  Just two, opening on a cold rainy morning that left them covered with ice, but they endured. Now dozens of yellow faces smile along the sidewalk and white ones wait to open.  

Yesterday it was brilliant pink Hyacinths, tucked in between the foundation and walk-way. 

This spring, our first in this old farm house, is a season of seeking and finding, a treasure hunt as we wait to see what will arise from the barren branches, the quiet earth. 

I remember going in to my children’s rooms in the morning when they were new, young buds fresh from the womb.  I unwrapped their swaddles with delight as one opens a present, a gift given and growing and now I see that they were wrapped, new buds like the daffodils, waking each morning to face the sun.  

//

Twice now in the month since we bought our home, individuals have stopped by to drop off keys to our house.  Friends and caretakers of the late owner, they come bearing stories and photos.

We received this property as one does an inheritance, which is to say aware that we are just one chapter in a long story of life and love and loss.  It may sound strange, since we bought the house outright.  But John and I have both felt it, the weight of this place, its enormity, the sense of a gift beyond what we knew to ask for or could command in our own right. 

//

Spring is the season of inheritance, of gifts beyond our asking.  The flowers that bloom bright and unexpected, planted by another or by no one at all.   

Spring is the dinner party, the dazzling spectacle of bright delight to which we are all invited.  

Yes, yes, THIS, it is for you, dear one.  

Spring is the gospel season, the good news pure and bright, and buried within it lies the pearl of great price.  

Counting the careful kept coins in my purse, it's clear that I can't afford to buy this field, this pearl, this joy.  

But spring whispers, inviting. 

The children wake, waiting. 

Joy beckons like the ocean deep.  

Feeling the sun upon my shoulders, I turn like the daffodils, the crocus, the hyacinth, from winter’s heavy weight, opening to receive what I could not buy.

This post is linked with  Playdates With God.

Stop back this Tuesday for a review of Michelle Derusha's new memoir, "Spiritual Misfit."  Leave a comment on Tuesdays post for a chance to win a free copy!

The Season of Resurrection

 

The Season of Resurrection
 
Slender green fingers point toward the windswept sky,
where a battle rages between blue and cottony white.

Daffodil heads, wrapped in linen brown nod graciously, 
bright yellow flags waiting to unfurl.   

Everywhere  - under and all around - the voices of bright angels sing,
"Behold the One who is making all things new."

//

Although March's lion seems reluctant to lie down with the lamb, hints of spring are everywhere and we, my friends, are moving this Saturday to the farm house of our dreams.  These crocuses were peaking out this morning when I stopped by to help my husband with the enormous job of putting back together all of the things we've torn apart. 

Our older two started at their new school this week and that (Hallelujah!) has gone well.  They'll ride the bus on Monday and I will officially lay down my chauffeur hat for a few sweet months until the twins start preschool.

I moved two chairs and a candle stand into my writer's house the other day, swept and mopped the floor and took measurements for a desk.  Before long I hope to be writing and meeting with directees in that quiet, sunlit space.

We will be without internet for a few days (ie. for as long as we can stand it) and I will take a break from blogging.  There's still SO. MUCH. WORK. to be done.  But, spring is in the air, my friends and WE are all being made new. 

The Pharisee's House

The following is a work of fiction based on the story of Jesus eating at Simon the Pharisee's house (Luke 7:36-50).  It's based on a sermon from awhile back and seemed somehow appropriate for Lent.  
 
He tended to every detail. 

Invitations were carefully considered and extended.  The best linens laid, the finest dishes set out.  The seating chart arranged and rearranged again, everything situated to present himself in the best light.

He prepared his questions ahead of time. Clever queries, not too controversial, aimed more at displaying his own mental agility than fleshing out the nuances of this new and controversial teacher. 

Or maybe not.

Maybe the invitation was a moment of spontaneity he later grew to regret.

Perhaps there was a knot of nerves in his stomach as the meal approached, a cool sweat breaking out on his upper lip.  

Jesus and his disciples arrived wearing the dust of the day and looking tired.  By now Jesus had a reputation as a “drunkard and a glutton.”

The Pharisee’s friends arrived, other teachers of the law, exchanging looks, eyebrows raised.  They were likely cordial, but distant.  

Simon began to wonder if he'd made a mistake.  Everywhere he went, Jesus drew a crowd.

Strangers from the town gathered around the open courtyard, leaning, leering, murmuring among themselves.  

Those gathered at the table found themselves separated by a thousand years of interpretation, a million nuances, a trillion tiny judgments that left the conversation stilted, nearly unbearable.  

//


She was at the river, washing her thin clothes, watching as the dirt lifted layer by layer, carried away by the current.  She beat the cloth heavily with a stone in her effort to clean what could not be cleaned - the reputation that followed her like a shadow.

Far from where the other women gathered, she was free from their endless chatter, alone with her thoughts, her fears, her deep aching loneliness.

Over the wind, over the water, John the Baptist's wild voice rolled like the echo of distant thunder.  

Like water, his words seeped in, bypassing her loneliness and cracking open a well of pain that she carried deep deep within.  

Drawn closer, she watched as one person after another approached the water where John stood, waist deep.

“Repent!” he said, to each and then, splash, they sank under, supported only by his thick hands.  

“Your sins are forgiven,” he proclaimed over every face as it broke the surface, dripping.  

She didn’t ask how or why or by whose permission as she stepped forward into the water.  Her wet clothes clung indecently to a body gifted with curves that drew men’s eyes, even here, even now.  

Stumbling on the uneven riverbed, she righted herself and her eyes met the wide, wild eyes of John.  His eyes held her there in a steady gaze.  

She felt naked before his searching eyes, vulnerable as her shame fell around her, dropping like garments.  

In a matter of seconds, she was turned by rough hands that held her gently and plunged into the dark, cold water.  The sound of the river pummeled her ears.  It was a whirl of chaos, then she too broke the water’s surface.  

The light, the sounds, pierced her as she absorbed the word that was shouted over her, “Forgiven!”

She stumbled, weeping, toward the river’s edge and sat there stunned while people continued moving in and out of the water and the refrains repeated again and again, “Repent!” and “Your sins are forgiven!”  

There was another word too, on the lips of everyone there, “Jesus,” a teacher, a prophet.  Jesus was the one, the driving force behind the man with the wild eyes.  

Jesus was the one turning the world upside down, Jesus was the water washing it all clean, the light casting out shadows, the love piercing the shame. 

//
 
Word spread through the village, there was to be a dinner, a tete-a-tete at Simon the Pharisee’s house and Jesus would be there. 

She ran the whole way to her shambled home and tore through meager belongings until her fingers wrapped around the small jar she kept hidden, wrapped in a rag, her most precious possession. 

By the time she reached the dinner, she was sweating, out of breath, her hair hanging down in tangles.

There was a scuffle on the outer edge of the crowd, some shouts and shoving as she burst into the courtyard. 

Disheveled, she erupted into loud tears, overcome with emotion at the sight of Jesus.

Everything stopped.

Every eye turned.

Jaws dropped.

Every man at the table stiffened, drawing back, but Jesus' body softened visibly as she knelt.   

Bending over his feet, her hands eased along the arches, the callouses smoothing hot tears over dry, dusty skin. 

The weariness in Jesus' eyes, his shoulders, softened as he opened himself to the love that welled up out of her eyes, her hands, her sweaty, bent back.

Jesus, love-hungry and worn, welcomed her touch and what was a holy moment for Jesus and the woman - a sacrament - was a blasphemy for the Pharisee.

The sound of alabaster shattering ricocheted off the walls.

The scent of perfume wafting woke Simon like smelling salts. 

His eyes narrowed as he pulled himself back, half-rising from the table.  His lips curled into a sneer as what sounded like a low growl rumbled forth.    

Jesus, sensing the shift, half-turned and spoke the name, low and stern, like a master calling off a dog, "Simon . . ." and then, pausing, he added, "I have something to say to you."

"Simon."  It was the name that drew him up short, giving him pause enough to listen. 

Simon, the name his parents gave him all those years ago, the name he no longer used, preferring, instead, the shelter of religious titles.  The name stripped him to his essence and he replied as though a school boy to his master, "Yes, teacher, speak."    

//

The woman’s gratitude becomes a table, a meal where she and Christ are fed.  

Simon’s judgment becomes a wall isolating him from this meal of grace.  

Oh, God, may we also be moved through repentance and forgiveness to the seat of gratitude, at your feet.  Never let us miss this meal of grace.  Amen.  

This post is linked with Playdates With God.

Taming the Little Beasties

(How does an introverted mother make it through the long, cabin-fevered months of winter with four wild and wiley children underfoot?  Why, she reads to them, of course.)

This is the scene every morning and night at my house: me in sinking into a well-worn hollow of the couch, my lap filled with boys and a blanket and the older two perched along-side. 

They are my lions and tigers and bears, running and roaring restless and I tame them, still and silent, with the power of words.

They are hungry birds squawking and screeching until I build a little nest and fill their ears with stories. 

They are the snakes I charm with the hypnotic notes of "once upon a time" and "happily ever after."

They are my crowd, my captive audience, the flies trapped in this mama spider's web of words. 

This post if linked with Five Minute Friday, click over to read more posts on the prompt "crowd."

Building Walls for Lent (This Is Not a Post About Soda)

Two prisoners whose cells adjoin communicate with each other by knocking on the wall.  The wall is the thing which separates them but is also their means of communication.  It is the same with us and God.  Every separation is a link.  Simone Weil

I have a headache.

I'm tired.

I want a Diet Coke.

I gave up Diet Coke for Lent.

//

I cannot say whether it is my body or my mind that turns first toward that magic elixir.  I do know there are times and places - rituals, you might say - wherein I crave it most.

With pizza.

With Chinese food.

With pretzels and chips.

With four whiny children at my feet.

With headaches, severe and with stress and exhaustion - these make an excellent pairing.

//

Yesterday I sublimated my cravings for soda by eating the last, stale squares of brownie, prying them out of the glass dish with a steak knife.  Does that still count as sacrifice?

//

I'm not good at Lent, not very good at anything long-ish, although I can do deep on the spot.  Also, it seems a bit foolish, me here in my first world comforts, donning the proverbial hair shirt of a caffeine deprived existence.  Nothing noble, nothing brave.

Who knows, maybe this very evening I'll walk across the street to the little deli, a wrinkled dollar and five cents in my hand.  They're waiting there, chilled to perfection, black bottles lined up like soldiers waiting to be deployed.

Moreover, my discipline, should it endure, will not make Christ love me more.

Easter comes to us all, my friends, to those who anxiously prepare and wait and to those also who find it sneaking up like a surprise.

So, why bother?

//

I haven't given up yelling at my kids, as this friend has (let us all say a prayer for her now!), or looking in the mirror like this woman here who's leading a whole movement of women in smashing their idols.  I will continue to eat meat on Fridays and I will, mostly likely, slip-up when it comes to soda consumption.

With this relinquishment I'm building a wall, not the Great Wall of China, but something smaller, a facade you might say, between me and my good friend God, so that we can learn to communicate better.

I'm listening to my moods and how they swing, listening to what lies just behind the craving and, should I endure, what lies further behind.  I'm asking God about what I hear, what I see in myself, in gentle and non-judgemental ways.

//

"Oh, my God, this day is simply too much, I really think a soda would make it better." I say, knocking with some urgency.

"Yes," God says, tapping slowly in reply, "it's possible it would.  But really, let's stick with what's going on right here right now, you can get a soda later if you still need it."

Then and there, just like that, a conversation unfolds between the two of us.

And so it goes.

Knocking, tapping, banging at times, on that same flimsy wall for forty days straight.

//

It's not about what you give up or whether you make it forty days or not. 

It's not about earning or proving.

For me, it's about listening intentionally, opening myself to a conversation that wouldn't otherwise happen.

And, also, it's about Easter that comes to us all, slowly and surely whether we realize we've been waiting or not; Easter, when ALL of the walls came down.

Love Was His Meaning

What, do you wish to know our Lord's meaning in this?  Know it well, love was his meaning.  Who reveals it to you? Love.  What did he reveal to you?  Love.  Why does he reveal it to you?  For love.  Remain in this, and you will know more of the same.  But you will never know different, without end." Julian of Norwich

//

I've been gone on retreat - 24 hours - away from the beginning of one day's nap until the end of the next.  They're ecstatic to see me, my little cherubs, their faces still red and their downy hair wet from a good, hard nap.  I sit on the couch and they perch on my lap, one on each leg.

Between gulps of juice, Levi accuses me of having gone on vacation.

"You, ta-chun?" he asks, again and again until I grasp his garbled question.

"Me, ta-chun!" he demands, in a voice ripe with the accusation of one left behind.

Isaiah tucks himself in under my arm, nestling down with his head on my chest.  Looking up, he makes lovey-eyes at me, his face spread wide with a look of pure pleasure.  I kiss his cheeks and he slides himself out from time to time, resting his cheek on his hand and gazing up at me with complete and utter adulation.  Right here, right now, he is love embodied and pure love and delight rolls off of him in waves.

Laughing, I turn to my husband, "He is so in love with me right now.  It's adorable."

//

Later in the week, I take the twins to a local green house where we eat lunch in a little cafe.  Isaiah holds his bun-less hotdog like a cigar, taking bites from the end.  Once the hot dogs and chips are gone, they move on to the bread, dipped in ketchup.

Then the game of "throw-away" begins as they clear the table of all debris, making multiple trips to the trash can a few feet away.  Their chests puff out a little more each after each trip until finally the table is cleared except for the large plastic tray.  Handing the tray to Levi, I tell him to place it on top of the trash can.  Clutching it, he throws his shoulders back and long-strides across the room.

By this time he has an audience, an older gentleman stands watching from a few feet behind.

"How sweet," the man murmurs, before leaning in to ask about my boys.  I explain they're twins and his response, "That must be a lot of work," pleases me.

Then he tells me how he met his wife in 1948 and that they were friends for two years before becoming something more than friends.  His blue eyes twinkle with love-light as he talks and I can tell he can't hear a word I say, so I listen with a wide-eyed smile.

"I still remember it, like it was today," he says.  "She took my hand in hers and said, 'Roger, I sure do love you.'"

Then he told me how they had three girls, all in a row, motioning once with his hand for each daughter and how he expected the next might be a boy.  His wife said no, though, she wasn't having any more children and figured that three girls was a big family as it was. "You don't want any more children," she told him, but I could see right there in his eyes that he did.

"But they grew up," he continued, "and got married and gave me grandchildren and now those grandchildren are married."  He seemed overwhelmed by the goodness, the marvel of it all, the way life opens up and multiplies around us.

Now this whole time, my boys were winking and wiggling at the table, eating bread and murmuring subtle and not-so-subtle hellos in his direction.  As he turned to join his wife who was waiting for their meal at the lunch counter, Levi leaned into me, his blue eyes wide.  All serious and sweet he asked again and again, "Me hug, me hug?"

Surprised by his boldness I checked two or three times to be sure, "You want to hug him?"
"Yeah," he replied, with a relieved smile.

By this time Isaiah had worked his way around the table, he wanted to hug too and he kept taking two steps forward, then back.

"Ok," I said, "you can hug him."

I gathered their coats and Levi's hand found mine as Isaiah ran ahead, surprising the man with a bear hug from behind.  The man turned, surprised, delighted and Isaiah did his happy dance then ran forward again, his arms spread wide and the man bent down to receive him.

Levi hung back, his hand in mine, caught in indecision before leaning in with a hug of his own.

//

It was three years ago in January that we found out we were expecting twins.  An unexpected pregnancy, life interrupted times two and oh how I struggled to make sense of it all.

Julian prayed for fifteen years to know the meaning of her revelation and I've waited nowhere near as long, but stumbling across her words this weekend I realized that the meaning was the same.  These boys, oh, these boys, how they've made life open up and multiply around us. Stretching my belly, my arms, my heart, there's no area of life that's been unchanged, unexpanded by this love and now my prayer is this, may we never know different, without end.

If you like this post, you might also like When Love Visits or The Blessing: On the Eve of Your First Birthday.