“Dad, can we go in the water?”
Why do children pose this question in our most comfortable moment? Can’t they see we’ve finally made it to the site, erected all our crap, nestled into our chair, cracked a cold drink, and enjoyed a settling exhale?
No. They don’t see that. All they see is you’re not doing anything. To them you are free as a bird, or to be more precise a pelican, that is likely just eager to plunge into the cold, wet water.
“Maybe a little later, buddy. I just sat down.” The predictable, canned answer flows from my mouth without blinking. This is the retort that’s necessary to maintaining the present comfort. I’m not saying “no” and I’m sprinkling a seed of hope that sometime—later, maybe today or this week or lifetime—I’ll go in.
Ah but they have a favorite card to play, too. The shoulders slump, and head drops, and a disappointed “Okayyy” is dropped. It stings a little and we worry the moment could be missed.
Most of us parents know this scenario and feeling. Countless times we’re asked to do something that in the moment we’d rather not. My son asked me to go in the water this week at the beach. At the time I was trying to fish (trying, definitely not fishing) and I felt the tide wash in and cover my feet. Borderline icy, and a full-body immersion seemed outrageous.
My “maybe later” comeback wasn’t accepted. The boy was bored, the ocean beckoned, and a shared experience was possible. If by chance, Dad relented and was OK with getting cold for five minutes.
Deny yourself. A concept so simple to understand yet so hard, counter-cultural, and impractical to carry out. It defies natural instincts—comfort, success, even survival. To deny one’s self is to often deny common sense, to be willingly against me.
So why do it? If I lived in a world created for me, there’d be no reason. Yet I actually find myself in a world with others, a world made equally for everyone. In that sense self-denial is as practical as teeth brushing. Denying oneself is necessary for me, and others, to get by in this world.
I look back at my boy. The first denial will be going back on my word from ten seconds before. Am I the kind of Dad who doesn’t stick to his word? Yeah, might have to be.
We’ll go in, I tell him, but it’s my duty to forewarn the misery that will ensue. It might be too cold. We may not do it for long. He doesn’t care, his fresh smile tells me. Meanwhile I grumble through the self-denial and wade uncomfortably into the gelid breakers.
Then the last moment before the literal plunge, all instincts telling me this won’t be worth it. On “three” we go under the wave. My lungs contract and my body screams “why?” We both emerge with a holler, shaking.
And laughing.
We do it several more times. “It feels kind of good now, doesn’t it, Dad?” Yes, it kind of does.
We walk up the beach. He’s filled. And I find that I’m filled because he’s filled. Sometimes what’s on the other side of “deny yourself” is the moment that everyone needs. It’s the moment that will never be documented if missed, but will forever be remembered if made.
Again, the Teacher was right. He knew what we didn’t, that to deny yourself is the path that leads to life.
And a lesson with the endless opportunity of being retaught. If we let it.
