Women of the ELCA

I don’t imagine many will read this blog this night. We will all be wrapped in faith, family and friends.

There will be on this night, one of the darkest nights in the northern hemisphere, candlelight services demonstrating how the Light of heaven came to earth.

There’s a big billboard on the New Jersey side of the Lincoln Tunnel entering New York City that shows the three wise men, Joseph, Mary and Jesus  in silhouette against a bright blue background. Across the top in big letters are the words, “You KNOW it’s a myth,” with the tagline, “This season, celebrate REASON.”

News coverage has shown travelers giving it mixed reviews. Some want it taken down. Others feel everyone has a right to their opinions.

Do you even care what the American Atheist Association has to say about our faith? Thought so .  . . me neither. Still, I like the idea of celebrating reason.

In my lifetime, I have been asked for reasons. I have been asked how there can be a loving God in heaven while people freeze to death this night. How can there be a giving, compassionate God in heaven while innocent people continue to suffer due to warfare, famine and natural disasters?

The reasoning behind such questions? God has to take care of everything for us.

The first time I was asked if I knew that December 25 is not really Jesus’ birthday, I did not know this; but that didn’t make me question my faith, either. I studied and learned how the Roman church selected the winter solstice as the time to remember the birth of our Messiah—along the way, more than a few indigenous customs (such as decorating evergreens) got appropriated and reinterpreted to enhance a limited and challenged understanding of what God-made-flesh to be killed and then resurrected could mean.

I am so grateful that God was made flesh. I don’t understand it, but I am grateful for it. It tells me something about our possibilities, particularly on this night of lights, song and sweet story. As it has also been written: If the same spirit that raised Christ from the dead, dwells in you . . . Well, wow!

Merry Christmas!

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My husband and I attended a Christmas party over the weekend. A group of partygoers sat in the living room talking about Christmas celebrations and traditions from our childhoods. One of the guests asked the group what the best gift we ever received for Christmas was.

The first thing that came to my mind was the disappointment of not getting the Swatch watch that I asked for from my parents when I was in fourth grade. Instead, I received the inexpensive knockoff. Of course I got over it, but I must’ve felt I had to fill some sort of Swatch watch void because I purchased (with my babysitting and movie theatre concession stand earnings) three Swatch watches between junior high and college.

When I asked my husband if he could think of the best Christmas gift he got, he said, “It only reminds me of being disappointed. Every year I’d get my hopes up but I’d always get the generic version of the gift I really wanted.”

But one year a neighbor on his paper route left him a name brand transformer toy. He felt so special—this customer didn’t even know him. Even as he was telling me that story, my husband spoke excitedly about this childhood memory. He said, “Really, it was the one that every kid in my class wanted!”

As adults, we know there is more to celebrating Christ’s birth than buying name brand, highly sought-after material things. Maybe it’s our over-consumptive lifestyle with its abundance of marketing that encourages children to interpret a material gift as a tangible expression of love.

As a parent, it can be destructive to cater to your child’s whims, and it is important teach the value of work and money. But can we expect our children to understand something that only adults really do? How do we balance all this?

This year my husband and I adopted a Christmas gift recipient from the local Starbucks. An organization called Face to Face matches retailers and their customers with students from around Chicago that may not be receiving any gifts this holiday. I selected a letter written by Le’Sugar, a 13-year-old girl. She wrote about needing a Jansport backpack (preferably in purple) for all of the books she has to carry now that she is in the 8^th grade. And if that wasn’t possible, she would prefer a gift card from Target to give her mom, who is the most important person in her life.

Like Le’Sugar, my husband and I wanted our objects of desire because it made us feel like we belonged and fit in with our peers.

Maybe that’s what it is all about, belonging. As we mature, we realize that we can feel a sense of belonging in other ways, and we build a community around us that helps us feel good about ourselves and one another. Young adults begin to understand that material gifts are not as important as time and relationships. But until that time, maybe a Swatch watch or Jansport backpack will have to do.

How will you make your holiday gift-giving special for someone?

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 “I came down from heaven and I danced on earth
At Bethlehem I had my birth.”*

Twenty-two years ago this month my father died. He and my mother were dancing when he suffered a fatal heart attack and died mid-dance. The song “Lord of the Dance” no doubt contributed to the comforting image I had of Dad dancing his way into heaven. Even though the family knew Dad had some heart problems, his death was unexpected and left many of us in shock. The same has not been so with my mother.

Earlier this month my mother died. A once vivacious and loving woman, Mom slowly became less and less of herself due to dementia. More than 10 years ago my brothers and I noticed Mom becoming more forgetful. She’d repeat herself two or three times in a simple phone call. When she moved from the family home where she’d lived for more than 40 years into a retirement community apartment, she became disoriented, unable to easily find her belongings. When a bill or two went unpaid, I took over her finances. When she forgot my birthday in 2006, there was no denying the illness was progressing. Later that year, following a difficult hospitalization with pancreatitis and a gallbladder removal, Mom spiraled downward.

By the fall of 2006 Mom didn’t recognize herself in photos, didn’t know that my father had died, and thought that my husband was my “gentleman friend.” By the spring of 2007, when a great-grandson was born, she could comment about the baby’s hands and feet but called him by my oldest brother’s name. She would continue to recognize me for another year or so, but soon called me by the name of a favorite cousin of hers. She became less and less verbal this past year.

I was with Mom during the final moments before she died. I held her hand and told her again her own history. Born in Cloverport, Tennessee, her Southern Baptist upbringing, graduation from Central High School in Little Rock, Ark., marriage during WWII, raising her family, serving as church secretary, births of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I reminded her of her vivacious and loving life before dementia robbed her of so much. I told her of her children’s great love for her, even as she breathed her last breath.

Every visit I made since the summer of 2006 brought with it a measure of heartbreak and sorrow as the mother I knew slowly slipped away. I have mourned her passing bit by bit these past four years. So now, at her death, the mourning is nearly completed rather than just beginning, as it was in my father’s death.

A dance image comforts me again. I imagine Dad waiting for Mom, welcoming her to the other side of God’s commonwealth, where they finished the dance that was interrupted 22 years ago, a dance that continues now for all time.

Linda Post Bushkofsky is the daughter of Richard W. and Printa Bernice Johnson Post.

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I love my scars. And I have lots of them. I look at them as tree rings, etches that indicate age and experience. And often poor coordination.

I have a scar on my left knee that marks when I had my knee cap realigned. I have scars on both ankles from when I had my ligaments tightened. (The wrong operation, as it turns out. Lesson learned: Get a second opinion.) I have one on my right knee from when I ran through a rose bush at age eight during a game of hide and seek, and another on my left leg from when I executed a tether ball jump shot and got hooked on a nail sticking out of the pole. I have them all over my fingers and hands. I’m a real klutz in the kitchen.

But my favorite scar is the one that slices me straight down the middle, from above my belly button to my … well, let’s just say it’s a seven-inch vertical scar. This is my badge, my purple heart that proves I did battle with stage 3 colon cancer and won. At least so far.

I thought I was weird for loving this particular scar, for wanting to lift my shirt, unzip my pants and show it to my friends and family, especially when it was fresh and cherry red. I also love its partner scar, the one on the upper right side of my chest where doctors slipped in the chemotherapy port and then slipped it back out when my treatments were finished.

It turns out others love their colon cancer scars, too. In fact, there’s a calendar to prove it. The Colonder is “produced by The Colon Club, a New York-based non-profit that educates people about colorectal cancer,” according to the Chicago Tribune, where I learned about the calendar.  The 12-month calendar features people—all under 50 (probably why they didn’t ask me to pose!)—who were diagnosed with colon cancer and lived to show off their scars.

I did as my doctor instructed and got my colonoscopy at age 50. Like those in the calendar, I’ve got the scar to prove it.

What scars do you have–internal or external–that prove you’ve got a little life under your belt?

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My mom was not a good cook. She wasn’t confident about her skills and she didn’t like to cook.  For her, making dinner was a burden. She gave us food poisoning more than once (we’re still not allowed to joke about the deadly pierogi). But, still, she did the best she could, given her attitude and her worries about the family budget. Money was tight–my dad worked in a paint factory and later as a school janitor.  

From my mom I learned to worry about cooking too. I was sure I was bad at it. It stresses me out in a way that other challenges do not. It didn’t help that I dated a couple of very critical men who found something to complain about in almost every meal.

This weekend we had terrible weather–rain, high winds, snow, arctic wind chills. My boyfriend was coming over on Saturday night. Keep in mind that my boyfriend is in his 60s (I’m in my 50s). I said I’d make dinner and we’d watch a DVD–the weather was too awful to go out.

To make dinner for someone is a big deal for me. So I turned to an old favorite of my mom’s: tuna-noodle casserole. It’s cheap and easy–a can of mushroom soup, a can of tuna, a handful of frozen (or canned) peas, a package of macaroni, some crunched-up potato chips for the topping. I happened to have some minced onion and sliced mushrooms from a previous meal, so I sauteed them in olive oil first and then added the soup, tuna, and peas to it before I dumped “the sauce” into a casserole dish with the cooked pasta. Then I sprinkled some grated cheddar and the broken-up potato chips on top and baked it.

Boyfriend Ron was wet, tired and cold when he arrived. He’s a skinny guy–not a big eater. But he had three helpings of the casserole . . . and said that it reminded him of the comfort food his mom made  years ago. He even asked if he could take leftovers home! It was a great success for me, the anxious cook. And I was so surprised that such a humble meal was such a big hit.

So I ask–what do you worry about when you cook? Have you got any surprise success humble meals?

What comfort food doyou want during a blizzard? Can you share the recipes with us?

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I was returning to Chicago the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, and while waiting for my bag at the airport, I spotted a sign that said “Did You Know?” It was the work of the American Heart Association.

This is what the sign read:

***

Did You Know?

One in three women has some form of heart disease.

More women die of cardiovascular disease than the next five causes of death combined, including all cancers.

64% of women who die suddenly of coronary heart disease have no previous symptoms.

***

No, I didn’t know. And I’ve been thinking about these statements ever since. I had just been with my two sisters, laughing and catching up over the holiday. One in three women has some form of heart disease …

More than the next five causes combined … Ok, I knew heart disease is #1 and stroke is #3, so I looked up the other ones. Cancer is #2, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD, a nonreversible persistent obstruction of the airways) is #4, diabetes #5, and Alzheimer’s #6.

When I think about, for example, all the effort and energy put forth by the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation to make education and research a priority, I wonder, how can this be?

I don’t think we have to know why as much as we need to decide what we are going to do about it. We (Women of the ELCA) have a health initiative, Raising Up Healthy Women and Girls, focused on heart health. We have been at this work of raising awareness and educating women and girls on heart health for a while now, but looking at these statistics, we need to kick our efforts up a notch.

For women of faith, this matter of the heart starts with the spirit. Let’s talk about what we need to do to make a difference in these statistics.

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This weekend, I took my kids to see a children’s theater production of the Wizard of Oz. It was so much fun and wonderful to hear all the great music again. I had not watched the movie in years, and the last time I had was with my brother-in-law who, though a beloved member of our family, suddenly put on his history professor hat and reminded everyone of the political allegory that is the Wizard of Oz. 

Did YOU know that this children’s story is really a parable on populism? Gold vs. silver. Farmers and workers versus bankers and industrialists. Ok, so in the book, Dorothy’s shoes are really silver and not ruby. And her silver shoes walk on the yellow (gold) brick road. Ok brother-in-law, I get it. 

You can read this fairy tale as a political allegory about populism in the early 20th century, but instead, how about just enjoy it as the great children’s tale that it is. Sitting there with my kids singing along, I enjoyed the humor and the sweetness of the story. Maybe it is a political allegory, but this weekend, for me, it was just a great show to watch with my children. 

Do we sometimes read too much into something?  If we do that, then everything could be a statement on our politics, our economy, our society. And that sometimes is helpful, but this Saturday, it was more fun dressing up, singing along and seeing the scarecrow as just a scarecrow and the tin man as just a tin man. How do you see it?

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Let me introduce you to my current pet peeve. It has swirled around in my brain for awhile, but now it’s beginning to overtake and upset me.

I am managing editor for Lutheran Woman Today magazine and our staff (of two) is charged with putting out two Bible studies each year: one nine-month study that runs from September to May and a three-month study that runs during the summer months.

The three-month summer study is lighter fare, usually. Easier to read; easier to digest. The nine-month study is slightly more challenging. We hope that the true Bible scholars in our church (e.g., the women’s Bible study groups) will find in it some new information, something they have not heard before, something that enlightens them.

So when pastors—male or female—call us and tell us that the Bible study is just too hard for the “older ladies” to understand, I get upset. And when the women themselves call or write saying the same thing about their group of “older ladies,” I am bewildered.

Our Bible study is often (mostly) written by seminary professors, true, because we must enlist people who have studied the Bible before they can communicate it to others. But these are people who teach. Their job is to impart knowledge so that students can understand it.

Not every person likes every study. (If only it could be so!)

But that does not mean the studies are too hard for the “older ladies” to understand them. These are the “older ladies” who have been studying the Bible for 30, 40, even 60 years. They could teach the seminary professors!

Academic studies indicate that our brainpower does not decline as we age. Instead, we become wiser, and so it takes longer to sift through the data. It’s called a broad attention span, according to a New York Times article. Maybe all that is needed is more time to study the lesson, say two hours rather than one.

I want our older Bible study participants (as well as their pastors and leaders) to embrace their brain power, their wisdom, their biblical knowledge. And to know that you are our teachers.

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