When we were finally seated for a delayed, middle-of-the-night departure from O’Hare, the flight attendant, while conducting her seat-belt check, informed Nate (7) that although there was no in-flight meal service she’d bring him apple juice once we were off the ground. She said she was sorry he was hungry.

Someone heard the dialogue and a large, dark Hersey’s chocolate appeared from across the aisle one row back. Then a sliced turkey sandwich was nudged between the seats from a passenger behind me. I know this could happen anywhere but this serendipitous moment of community affirmed my abiding love for America.

Much earlier, while coming through airport security in Phoenix, I saw things go Nate’s way in a most unexpected manner. You might have realized he has a way…

He’d removed his belt and shoes and had placed his wheeler bag through the X-ray machine when he spied a stash of TSA officers’ candy on a desk off to the side. Before dressing he’d ushered the officer (the one who had just patted him down) to the candy.

When I next saw Nate, after my own run through security, he and the officer were carefully fishing out the exact pieces Nate wanted.

Gosh. I love America. Chocolate, sandwiches, and apple juice, I understand. There are generous people everywhere. But try and getting candy from an airport security officer in Romania, or anywhere else we’ve traveled. I don’t think so.

Children who seldom (or never) see one (or both) of their parents
Children who are victims of violence or have to witness it
Families who are victims of the excessive use of alcohol
Men and women who are “content” living partial (unfulfilled, discontented) lives
Individuals and groups harboring prejudice
Churches and places of worship selling feelings of obligation and guilt
Businesses that exploit customers and employees
Men and women who refuse to forgive
The chronically (and minimally) anxious among us
Betrayed spouses and those caught in a web of betrayal
Men and women who are indifferent to their own aged parents
Men and women who accumulate wealth and power on the backs of those who have little of both

My last Christmas with my father was in August 1994. We were in a car. He began to sing, without the tattered red robe and cotton wool beard, “Christmas comes but once a year…” We twisted down towards Bluff Road and the car became a holy place. I heard him sing again of “the little laddie who didn’t have a daddy” who went home to play with “last year’s broken toys.” This time, he sang it more sweetly and more reverently than I had ever heard.

I cannot shake myself of the serenity in the car and the gentleness in his voice or the sight of his sharp blue eyes against the tanned face, white hair resting on the collar of his habitually-worn blue cardigan. He was smaller than I had ever noticed, hunched, or curled into the corner of the car seat, as if trying to occupy less and less room.

He sang innocently to me, and I believed to every child, with a faulty frail voice embodying hope born of humility. And it was a beautiful and holy moment—one for which an adult son might long.

Three weeks later he was dead.

Within each person is a holy place called The Self. It is here, in the deepest recesses of who each of us is, that the human spirit, soul, and intellect meld, forming the powerhouse for who each of us is. And, the subtle art of self-care (“subtle” because there is a delicate difference between being self-caring, selfish, and self-serving) is fundamental to good mental, emotional, and relational health.

Appropriate self-care is neither selfish nor self-indulgent. It is not self-centered-ness. It is not self-serving. It is self-awareness. It’s self-monitoring, with the firm understanding that each person is responsible for the condition of his or her self. Each of us is responsible for how we relate to all others (to neither dominate or be dominated). Each of us is responsible, when it comes to ALL other adults, for maintaining relationships that exemplify mutuality, respect, and equality.

Part of self-care is the enduring understanding that each person has a voice to be respected, a role to be fulfilled, and a calling to be pursued. Every person (every Self) requires room to grow, space apart from others, while at the same time requiring intimacy and connection. The healthy Self is both connected and separate all at the same time, underscoring again the subtlety required in the art of self-care.

Until I was about seven and became too large for her to carry, I would ride tied with a blanket on our maid’s back. The movement, her melodies, and the safety of her broad back rocked me to sleep.

Pauline protected me. She was my mountain. She was “the girl”.

The little Zulu I know I learned from her and we’d bellow with laughter when I mastered a difficult word. She taught me her songs and our singing would end with her shrieks as she danced and clapped her hands and circled me with her joy.

Every afternoon Pauline shelled peas or peeled potatoes, preparing our family dinner, and enjoyed loud conversation with other maids gathered from nearby homes. Sewing, knitting, cleaning silver, and tending white babies, the community of women rocked their bodies in loud agreement.

In the middle of one night Pauline had to leave.

I remember the police vans and the men in blue uniforms and her things strewn out on the lawn for everyone to see.

“She has to go,” Mother said, “I cannot have a thief living on my property.”

Among the items on the grass Mother had identified a blanket, a cup, and a handful of beads.

“Yes, we cannot have a thief living on our property,” I agreed.

And because my parents decided to bring no official charge against her she left walking off into the night carrying her things.

We never looked at each other.

Then again, you cannot have a thief living on your property.