Fifty Years Later

            Fifty years ago—the Tuesday before Thanksgiving—I took my first plane trip, flying from Grand Rapids, Michigan to New York City. A blizzard in Cleveland, Ohio almost forestalled Mom and me from reaching our destination, but finally the weather cleared enough for our connecting flight to take off. 

            It was a mad dash in a taxi from the airport to Planned Parenthood.  We were hours late for my appointment, and it was almost time for the clinic to close for the day, but they took me in anyway.

            Yes, you’ve guessed right: I was there for an abortion.  I’ll spare you the grisly details.  Suffice it to say that afterward we picked up a few prescriptions for me and spent the night in a rather awful motel room.  The next day we flew back home, and on Thursday our family celebrated Thanksgiving.

            Fifty years later, I’ve decided that my baby was a girl named Charlotte.  Fifty years later, I still regret aborting her and wonder what she would have been like.  Fifty years later, my grief and shame have softened, making it possible to mark this anniversary publicly.

            Here is what I want you to know:  abortion may seem like the only solution when you face an unwanted pregnancy.  It may make logical sense, if you don’t think about the life within you as a real baby.  It may solve some short-term problems, but it leaves you with lifelong damage. 

            I was left with a damaged cervix that almost resulted in miscarriage of my second living child.  I was left with emotional trauma, depression, and shame that still bog me down at times.

            I am aware that some women claim that their abortions were liberating, but I sense that there are many more who suffer silently for a lifetime.  Here is what I want to say: abortion hurts women.  Even fifty years later.

To My Conservative Friends: Be an Informed Citizen

 

            For months before the election, President Trump warned America of the dangers of mail-in voting and widespread fraud. Hence, he advised his constituents to vote in person on election day.

            At the same time former Vice-President Joe Biden encouraged mail-in voting in as an option to avoid crowds at the polls and thus lessen the spread of covid-19.

            It should be no surprise that Republicans by and large cast their votes on election day, while Democrats utilized mail-in voting to a great degree. The election laws in some states prohibited the counting of mail-in ballots before election day.  Therefore, they were counted after the in-person votes.  The result was not surprising: mail-in ballots shifted the tide in several key states from a Trump victory to a Biden victory.

            Thereafter, President Trump has cried fraud and had his legal team mount many court challenges in various states.  All but two of the thirty challenges have been cast down by judges, many of whom are Republicans.  Yet, he persists in his accusations.

            Right-wing news media promotes the president’s conspiracy charges.  However, fact checks show time and again that claims of fraud have no verifiable evidence despite the numbers and statistics that are claimed.

            In the meantime, the Trump administration refuses to cooperate with the smooth and peaceful transfer of power.  As a result, president-elect Biden does not have access to vital security briefings.

            Voting is a hallmark of American democracy, as is freedom of the press.  Throughout his presidency, Trump has accused the media of spreading “fake news.”  However, it is important to have both conservative and liberal voices heard.  If we lose that freedom, we may lose democracy as well.

            Read the news and listen to the news, all of it.  Follow the liberal news outlets as well as the conservative ones.  Try listening to international news coverage of our election as well.  When you see alarming statistics, check their source.  Look for proof from independent sources. Be an informed citizen.

What is a Christian to Do?

            Over the past four years, I have been more interested in politics and current events than ever before in my life. I’ve struggled to understand various perspectives and wondered what propels Christians, in particular, to embrace diverse views. 

            That is what propelled my interest in the reprint of an April 19, 1985 Christianity Today article by J.I. Packer, a well-known evangelical theologian, who died this past July.  “How to Recognize a Christian Citizen” appears in the September 2020 edition of the magazine. Because the article struck a deep chord in me, I wish to attempt a summary of it.

            Packer begins by briefly reviewing what is said about “civic obligation” in the New Testament and then moves on to thoroughly define what he calls “three [misguided] developments in modern Christendom.” First is “[t]he politicized intentions of some Christian relativists” who lose sight of the Gospel as they promote social justice.  Next, he reviews “[t]he pietistic inhibitions of some Christian absolutists,” those who accept the Bible as God’s inerrant word and seek to live holy lives but eschew political involvement. Finally, he describes “[t]he political imperialism of some Christian biblicists” as those who hold fast to the Gospel but misconstrue their involvement in the political process as “the modern equivalent of holy war in the Old Testament, in which God called upon his people to overthrow the heathen and take their kingdom by force.”

            What then, are Christians to do when it comes to political engagement? Packer outlines five possible ways to exercise “responsible commitment”:

1.      Everyone should stay informed about current issues and candidates.

2.      Everyone should pray for our elected officials.

3.      Everyone should vote.  He exhorts Christians to vote “by issues rather than personalities, and not by single issues viewed in isolation, but by our vision of total community welfare.”

4.      Some “should seek political influence by debating, writing, and working within the political party with which they are in nearest agreement.”

5.      Some “should accept a political vocation.”

            Packer ends his article with a lengthy quotation from The Christian Citizen by Sir Frederick Catherwood, which urges humility in our service to humanity out of love for God.   

            Packer’s writing helps us identify potential pitfalls for Christians today. He reminds us to hold fast to our faith while seeking to influence the world around us for good.  He encourages us to be informed and exercise our right to vote. Amidst the “us versus them” divisiveness that abounds today and threatens to split our country and even our churches, let us remember the Great Commandment.  Let us speak and write with respect and civility toward those with whom we disagree.  Let us remember that Jesus calls us to love without exception and seek His Kingdom first, even when we disagree.

           

A Pastoral Letter from March 19, 2020

 Greetings!

I hope today finds you healthy at home.  It is quite a change we are all going through, limiting our activities for an indefinite length of time in order to protect others and ourselves from covid-19. 

Today I had hoped to call as many people as I could in our congregation just to say a friendly hello and find out it you needed anything.  But a bad cold prevents me from talking much, so I’m emailing instead. 

I was just reading Bible Study Fellowship notes from last week.  We are studying the book of Acts with side trips into some of the New Testament letters.  One of the truths from I Corinthians is living our lives with love and humility, which often includes sacrificing for others’ benefit.  And isn’t that exactly what the whole nation has been called to do during this pandemic?  We are staying home and avoiding crowds in the effort to protect others (and ourselves) from disease.  We are making individual sacrifices for the greater common good. 

There is much fear and uncertainty circulating in our world today.  How bad will the pandemic become?  What will happen to jobs?  How long will we need to practice social distancing?  In this time of crisis, let’s start asking different questions that stem from love rather than fear:  How can I help my neighbors, my family, my friends?  How can I make this time of limited options one of personal spiritual growth?  How can I connect with others on a daily basis? 

Stay tuned to your email for communications from Pastor Ray about online prayer and worship opportunities.  If you have a computer—or even a smart phone or tablet—and Internet access, it is easy to get connected.  Just click on the link Ray provides in his email.

In the coming weeks, I’ll be in touch, whether by email, text, or phone call.  Feel free to contact me, too.  

Grace and Peace,

Janis Lussmyer, Interim Director of Pastoral Care

Good Shepherd Presbyterian Church

July Two, Thank You

 

                My eyes open and I say, “Thank you, God,” sometimes deliberately out of a gladsome heart and other times on autopilot.

                This morning, July 3, I started out on autopilot.  I remembered what my grandson Benjamin used to say when he was a baby: “blah, blah, blah.”  It’s a “blah” day. My joints creak and my muscles ache. For two years, I’ve had very little of the fibro aches and pains, but now they have resurfaced, sapping both energy and motivation.  I’m getting tired of social distancing and staying at home.

                I need a pick-me-up, so after getting ready for the day, I head out in my car with a short list of yard sales in hand.  Along the way, I’ll treat myself to a Starbucks cold brew.  It feels good to leave the house.  Driving alone often unleashes spontaneous song-prayers, and today is no different.  Remembering that I don’t have to pretend cheer for God, I don’t.  I say it, I sing it that I’m kind of depressed and ask for his presence.  I don’t feel it, but that is okay.  Gradually, over my lifetime, I am learning that faith is not based on feelings.

                Yesterday (July 2)  I picked up Benjamin from summer school to take him home. Our routine never varies. The teacher’s aide brings him outside, and I take his hand to walk to my car.  He is happy, thumb pulling up his shirt as he wags his hand in front of his face.  (Benjamin, now eleven and still nonverbal, has a dual diagnosis of Down Syndrome and autism.) I have the back door open for him, and he pauses at the window, waving his hand on the glass, before he climbs on his booster seat. I buckle him in, he moves his head toward me, and I kiss his forehead.  He makes a happy sound and grins, wagging that hand in front of his face while I close the door.  On the drive home, I sing to him, a blend of songs he knows and songs I make up just for him.

Thursdays are the day seven-year-old Joelle has commandeered as her special time with grandma, so after I spend a little time with Josiah and Ava while Benjamin eats his late lunch, she leads the way to my car.  She buckles herself in.  In the family van, her job is to buckle Benjamin in, too.  We head out, and she is full of questions, starting off with “What are we going to do today, Grandma?” She keeps a constant commentary going as I mail a letter and use the drive-through at the bank to pick up a couple check registers.  Every little action spurs questions and conversation.  I ask if she would like to go walk around at the mall, and she is delighted.  “Can we go to the girlie store?” she asks, and I rightly guess she means Claire’s.  We walk, hand in hand, and browse “girlie stuff” in Claire’s and toys in Goody’s. After ice cream and a sojourn to my house, we’re off to home again. 

                My “blah” day has taken a turn now that I’ve written about yesterday’s time with my grandchildren.  “Thank you,” I say to the One who always listens.  “Thank you for reminding me of my many blessings.”

               

Dear Anne

Today I found a letter I wrote on this date in 2014. Because it still speaks my heart, I've updated it for 2020.  

June 19, 2020

Dear Anne,

            I miss you.  Tomorrow would have been your 67^st birthday, and you’ve been gone almost eleven years already.

            I miss your hearty telephone greeting:  “Janis!”  I miss your overbearing personality.  I miss your tender heart carefully hidden beneath a gruff exterior.  I miss your sense of humor and verbal word play.  I miss your hand gripping mine and your piercing gaze.

            I still count those 66 days with you at the end of your life as a cherished yet profoundly difficult time.  I am so grateful that I was able to be your support and advocate.  Those long hours at your bedside taught me the ministry of presence.  So human and so holy, that time bound me to you in your suffering.  I learned the tiniest fraction of Christ’s sacrificial love.

            Anne, far more than I feared you as a child (you really were the older sister from hell!), I love you and miss you.  I’m glad you found the missing true love of your life, Jesus, at the very end. 

Love,

Janis

In a Jam

          “Joseph!” I called. “Can you bring me the screwdriver? I’m stuck in my room!”

          Thankfully, Joseph was awake and heard me.  Thankfully, I remembered where I store the screwdriver and was able to explain it to him.  Thankfully, since having the thick carpeting removed and the red oak floors refinished before I moved into my house seven years ago, I’ve never had the doors and baseboards lowered to be flush with the floor. The chunky screwdriver slid right under the door to me.

          I’m an expert procrastinator when it comes to home repairs. That’s because I’m all thumbs when it comes to fixing anything.  The doorknob had been difficult to turn for a long time, and I had dutifully put off the inevitable replacement.

          Getting it off, though, did not get me out of my room.  The mechanism inside was jammed.  Fortunately, after fruitless attempts using brute force, it occurred to me to have Joseph re-insert the doorknob from his side, which activated the mechanism.  I escaped.

          Later in the day, I bought a doorknob at Lowe’s and hoped I would be able to install it.  Somehow, taking things apart is easier than putting them back together.  But at least I had experience: about 25 years ago, I had replaced the doorknob to the front door of another house.  It only took a few hours, and I only discovered the little mistake I made in the installation when I was locking up the house for the night:  the keyhole was on the inside, and the lock was on the outside.

          Amazingly, the new doorknob to my bedroom fit, and I was able to put it on rather easily.  Well, except for one little mistake: after inserting the inside mechanism and securing the plate, I wanted to make sure it worked before I installed the knobs . . . so I closed the door, locking myself in my bedroom for the second time today.  Joseph again came to the rescue so I could finish the job.

          You might wonder why I didn’t have my son perform this supposedly simple household repair.  The answer is quite simple: I raised him.  He had no opportunity to learn how to do all the things I don’t know how to do. However, he’s a great back up when I get myself in a jam.

What Sugar Does

            Soft serve ice cream in a waffle cone.  Hershey’s chocolate nuggets.  Bakery monster cookie.  Concrete (vanilla custard with cookie dough).  Delicious, right?

            Yes, and for me, deadly.  Since stay-at-home and social distancing started seven weeks ago, I’ve been turning to sugar for comfort.  When my son and I venture out for essential errands, somehow a fast food stop has become part of our routine.  I need an occasional treat during this stressful time, right?

            Occasional probably would be alright.  But somehow, occasional has morphed into daily, at least since I foolishly purchased a big bag of Hershey’s nuggets.  The remarkable self-control I exercised for an entire year followed by less remarkable self-control for a second year has vanished.

            Two years ago, I radically changed my eating habits, majoring in fresh, non-starchy vegetables, lean protein, and heart-healthy fats while completely cutting out processed foods, refined carbohydrates, and sugar.  By completely, I mean completely: no packaged foods with more than five ingredients, none of which could be sugar, flour, or artificial ingredients.  The motivator was a whole-body breakout of eczema.  Steroids had made me very sick, and I could not face the next line of treatment (oral chemotherapy), so I decided to try an elimination diet.

            The eczema very slowly faded away over a period of months.  However, most of my fibromyalgia pain and fatigue disappeared in a week.  I felt better than I had in over twenty years.  Gone were exhaustion and malaise.  Gone was most of the daily pain that had plagued me for over twenty years.  Feeling so much better kept me supremely motivated to stay on my new way of eating . . . for the first year, at least, in which I effortlessly shed twenty pounds.

            I began breaking the rules during a lovely twelve-day vacation at my brother’s place on Whidbey Island back in July 2019.  Still maintaining a healthy diet, I felt no ill effects of the sugary treats I enjoyed that week.  When I returned home, it was harder to stay on the wagon, though I did for the most part.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  My eating standards relaxed more as the year went on.

            And then came the pandemic.  My unhealthy way of coping with stress resurfaced with a vengeance, and my self-control disappeared.  At least I retained my cooking at home healthy habits, but verboten* treats kept finding their way into my grocery cart, and drive-through ice cream treats became the rule instead of the exception.

            Yesterday, my routine check-up with my primary care provider revealed just how much weight I have gained back.  You would think that would put a brake on my consumption of sweets, but no.  A large soft-serve waffle cone followed my appointment that afternoon, and an undisclosed number of Hershey nuggets closed my evening.

            This morning was the worst yet.  My body felt like aching lead.  All I wanted to do was crawl back into bed . . . and I did, after a healthy breakfast.  (Here I must admit that the crawling back into bed has become a daily habit.)  My brain feels sluggish.  Even caffeine does not kickstart my afternoon.  My jeans are tighter, and if it were not for a Zoom meeting that starts in an hour and twelve more research papers to grade in the next few days, I would go back to bed.

            When I finally got up late this morning, a title popped into my mind: “What Sugar Does.”  The sudden appearance of titles usually means it is time to write.  Writing is a stress reliever for me, so if more blogs start to appear, it likely means that I’m turning to blogging rather than sugar to help me through the day.  Let’s hope that will be the case.

*German for "forbidden"

The Egg I Have in Mind

The Egg I Have in Mind

            Nestled in a white egg cup, a 44-year-old eggshell sits on my dresser.  Purchased in Prague, Czechoslovakia in 1976, the egg has traveled far over a lifetime.  At the minimum, it has resided in Freiburg, Germany; Douglas and Lowell, Michigan; Greenbank, Washington; and Bartlesville, Oklahoma.  If my memory serves me right, it spent many years in my mother’s china cabinet.

            I don’t know much about egg decorating, but this hollowed-out egg is clearly the work of a talented artist.  A small hole on the top and bottom indicate that the yolk and egg white were blown out.  Then, I imagine, the artist painted the entire surface in black.  The floral designs and intricate borders appear to have been etched, showing up as the original white of the shell. 

            The etched egg caught my eye in one of the stores that our tour group visited.  We were American students studying with the Institute for European Studies at West Germany’s University of Freiburg.  Before our semester began, we traveled to Czechoslovakia, which at the time was a communist country and had a depressed economy.  The stores we entered had sparse displays and the items were expensive in the nation’s currency.  However, the exchange rate with the German mark was excellent, so the purchases I made in various shops—the etched egg, a hat, a tenor recorder made of pear wood—hardly created a dent in my wallet.

            Looking at the egg on my dresser, I am a little sad.  Week before last, I accidentally let go of a decorative box lid, which fell back and broke the top off the egg.  Imagine that: after its safe travels by airplane, automobile, and moving truck, it gets broken when a small, light lid falls on it.  The last move it made, from Washington to Oklahoma via professional movers, it managed to survive even though the packers made a grave mistake—it lay, unwrapped, on top in a large packing box filled with carefully wrapped china. 

            I think I will keep the egg after all, even though the hole on top is much bigger and the small scattered pieces still adorn my dresser.  For some reason, I can’t seem to throw the fragments away, either.  There must be some lesson to my egg’s survival through perilous circumstances only to meet its end in a supposedly safe place, but all I know is that it remains the egg I have in mind.