Self Care? Or self-indulgence?

Curt is away again. When I am alone, it doesn’t seem worth it to cook a meal or prepare a table. But I still get hungry. So easy, in the press of getting other things done, to grab a few cookies and get on with it. And when hungry again, to grab some more.

Self-care has been on my mind. Mostly because I don't always do a good job of it. Out of shape and undisciplined in habits of rest and food, I begin to see that I am much better at self-indulgence.

It stands to reason. I come from the most self-indulgent people-group. Americans don’t just heat or cool the room, we heat and cool the whole house. Our houses are loaded with closet space and garages so that we can put away all that stuff we don’t need. More and more homes have cavernous garages to hold the extra cars. There are drive-through windows on every corner for burgers, tacos, and fancy coffees, and our cars are designed with multiple cup-holders so that we needn’t interrupt our eating and drinking when we drive to work or to the shop or to our fitness trainer. I think I’ll stop here and return to my point.

Self-indulgence turns on desire, sensual gratification, and gaining the attentions of others as we compete for reputation, power, influence, and status. Luxuries become needs. For believers, Kingdom-building (the furthering of God’s priorities on earth) becomes small-k kingdom-building as we position ourselves as lords and ladies of personal little fiefdoms of “ministry” or “family.” Hospitality becomes entertaining, or maybe even networking. Beauty becomes display.

 

Self-indulgence is often lazy, wanting the quick and easy way or instant gratification.

Self-indulgence rarely notices the unseen, the presence and goodness of God, of the Lord Jesus in our midst.

Self-care, in contrast, is a form of stewardship of body and soul as gifts and resources. Self-care measures what is needed to be strong for the task and emotionally poised for equanimity and outward-focused compassion. Self-care exercises patience with the limitations of body, time, or circumstances. It nourishes and equips towards worship and service.

Self-care, it dawns on me, is another matter entirely.

Yet the competing voices of world and flesh so easily draw us to confuse the two. “You deserve a break.” “Me-time.” “Retail therapy.” Many of our real-life actions may be one or the other, self-care or self-indulgence, depending on those oh-so-murky realms of motive and attitude. Is my “need” for time alone avoidance and escapism, withdrawal from compassion in favor of ivory-tower living? Or is it vital to renew and equip me to return to the fray with the stamina and empathy I need to serve others? Is a bigger house filled with lovely things a form of hoarding and prestige, or a reflection of the rest and beauty of heaven freely offered to whatever weary souls God may bring?

When I rise before dawn and prepare coffee, candles and incense, do I do it simply to indulge my senses and my habit, or do I make these actions in conscious preparation for worship in Your Presence, Lord?

For these days alone, I explore a new discipline of mindfulness towards meals and my body. In place of that handful of whatever eaten over the sink, I rise from early prayer to prepare soft-boiled egg, and home-made bread with the olive oil from my trees. I squeeze the juice from a couple of oranges, and put a slice of the lemon from my garden in a cup of hot water. I make a plate, grab a cloth napkin, and light a candle. And as I do these simple things, I rejoice in the miracle of chicken and tree, yeast and oven. I lift my eyes from the food to the Giver of the food, the sheltered space, and the time to prepare it. I am nourished and filled. 

Lessons from My Old Man

The frail old man wants to bandage the tips of his sore fingers. Every time he bathes the bandages come off and he must do this again.

He hunts for the cardboard box he keeps to contain all manner of bandaids, tape and scissors, then drops into his recliner where the light is good.

Dad has developed a habit of making little noises when he putters. Not song, or talking to himself. Not grunts, either. Pleasant noises that mark the rhythm of his movements. He makes them now.

With great care, he selects and unwraps a bandaid and painstakingly sets it to cover the tip of a finger. He rummages through his box again for a roll of tape. He picks up his magnifying glass to locate the end, which he then sticks precisely to the table edge. Using the bandaid wrapper as a measure, he takes pains to cut the tape to the precise length he needs. And another. Then a third. Two pieces get wrapped to cover the end of his digit in a criss-cross. The third he wraps around his finger so as to cover and protect the ends of the two. Full concentration. Little noises of activity and peaceable presence to a task that takes time and expends much of his limited energy. His arthritic fingers fumble with the small pieces and the awkwardness of one-handed work until three digits are covered. I am witness to remarkable ingenuity in his little tricks to address the difficulties loss of dexterity and deteriorating eyesight bring.

Infinitely patient. No haste. Fully engaged. Creative.

When he finishes, the sore fingertips are neatly wrapped. Not yet satisfied, he asks me to cut one small overlap. He puts his things away, and drops into a doze in his chair. Energy spent.

I am 56. Dad is 30 years older than me. You do the math. Lung cancer—untreatable and advancing—numbers his days. Dad still gets around, but it grows more difficult. He still understands, but it matters less and less as hours and days turn to haze and the quiet battle to simply wash, eat and visit with whoever comes by. I rarely see him online anymore. Hospice has entered the picture.

Since Mom’s death, I have walked with Dad--far more in seven years than in all the rest of my life. We’ve had some crazy adventures. I spent another few days with him in December, and came away moved by two simple things. Lessons. Ways of being that are worthy of imitation. Ways of loving to hope for in my advancing years.

The first is drawn from Dad’s character. As we age, our bodies are less and less able to do what our mind believes should happen with ease. Speed, balance, eyesight, dexterity.

Those changes advance on me. When my fingers fumble, or my mind can no longer focus on five things at once, or my body just won’t go that fast or lift that much, I get angry. Groaning impatience, and frustration that breeds hurry that breeds more fumbling mishaps. A particular flashpoint is when I am in a hurry and my fingers just can’t untangle the knot, or negotiate the complex one-handed effort to button or snap or insert. “WHY. CAN’T. I?” my inner child screams as I fumble faster.

I am touched profoundly by Dad’s kindness to himself. Self-care accomplished with calm intention. Quiet, methodical, gentle. Lord, my dad is teaching me something of infinite value.

The second “lesson” derives from watching others with Dad. As I boarded my plane to leave my heart was full of ways that I hope someone will love me as I grow older. I hope that my children and other caregivers will give me time. I hope they walk slowly alongside me while I shop for my bits and pieces of comfort and hospitality. I hope they sit with me and do nothing but savor the being together. I hope they let me tell again stories I love but have already told…a lot. I hope they will let me do those things for myself that I still have patience to do, even though they could do them so much better and faster for me.

I hope to be accompanied into old age by people who value the journey.

Thanks, Dad, for all the ways you allow me to go this journey with you. I love you.