IS IT WRONG TO BE PROUD OF YOURSELF? [SU, 2-2-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Memories of An Old Man—IS IT WRONG TO BE PROUD OF YOURSELF? [SU, 2-2-25]

 

[Warning: It’s my birth month, and it may be my last. Nothing imminent—no dread disease. But I’ve had a whole lot of birth months now, so… Anyway, I’m doing personal reflections this month, while I can, just writing about my own life. It might be boring. You could check back at Lent to see if I’ve gotten beyond myself.]

Is it self-indulgent, or a mark of hubris, or illusionary…to be proud of yourself for… working hard and making something of yourself…bragging about how far you came… well, yes, I always thought so. I mean, you can always find folks who had it harder than you did. But…

I saw an interview with Sophia Loren. She was a lonely, skinny girl in southern Italy. Her father was gone. She and her mother barely had enough to eat. Her mother entered her at age 14 in a local beauty contest because they needed the prize money. She didn’t want to be in the contest, because she thought her mouth and nose were too big. Apparently they were, because she won only second place. But it was enough for them to move to Rome, where she got a job modeling.

As she assessed her career, in her 80s, she said, “I think it’s okay now to say I’m proud of myself. It’s not bragging. It’s just being authentic. I had a really hard time as a girl, but I worked hard, and I made something of myself.”

Well, I figure that if an old lady like Sophia [She’s 3 years older than I] can be proud of herself for working hard and making something of herself, then so can I. I hope it’s authentic instead of boastful.

My parents were born in the first decade of the 20^th century. They both grew up in primitive conditions—well for water, outhouse, coal stoves, walking or using a horse to get some place. That was normal for their time.

It was not normal, though, after WWII, when I was ten and they moved us to a primitive little farm, but primitive was our lifestyle, anyway. It was all we could afford. All our neighbors by then had indoor plumbing, running water, central heat, cars instead of horses. We had none of those things.

On top of that, my father was blind and could not get a job. My mother had to apply for Aid to Dependent Children—welfare, which automatically made us “welfare chiselers.” We had an income of $85 per month, $1200 per month in today’s dollars. $14,400 per year. It wasn’t much for six people.

My first jobs didn’t pay anything. My father would trade the labor of the two of us together—building fence, making hay, picking corn, etc—for chicken feed…literally. But as soon as I was able, I took any paying job I could get—detasseling corn, picking tomatoes, jack of all trades in a combo grocery/service station, night shift in a factory. My family needed the money.

I was self-reliant out of necessity. If I did not have something, I assumed that I should do something about it. If I were lonely, I should make a friend or read a book. If I couldn’t do that until all the farm work was done, then I should get the farm work done as efficiently as possible. If my sister was dying, I should make a deal with God to save her. If I wanted to go to town, I should hitchhike or walk. I knew nobody else was going to do it for me. I don’t say that in a despairing way. I had lots of help in many ways. But I knew the real action in my life had to be done by me.

Our neighbors and church folk thought that was normal for someone my age. They had grown up that way. They liked to tell me about it, about their young years. Their stories made it sound normal. Because I lived like that, I understood and appreciated their stories. I didn’t think my story was anything special.

But they no longer lived like that, planting fields of sweet corn by hand, using horses instead of tractors, going without cars. They had furnaces and indoor bathrooms and running water, while I was growing up without those things.

They praised hand-cranked ice cream but that is about the only thing the old people and I had in common

Living that same way that old people had lived earlier, though, served me well in pastoring older people in my early years of ministry, because in lifestyle there was no age gap. Older people accepted me in spite of my youth.

Yes, there were probably two or three other kids in Oakland City who lived the primitive life that I did when we were in school, but very few. They had indoor toilets and cars.

Only now that I am almost 90 do I really understand how different my life was from my peers. Their parents or grands may have lived the primitive farm life, still much alive in story, but they never had.

Coupled with the absence of money and the stigma of welfare, I was a real outlier. It was like running a hundred-yard dash when you have to start ten yards behind the line where everyone else starts. I’m proud that I managed to run the whole race. I hope that doesn’t sound boastful.

I think it’s okay for you—regardless of how different your story may be from mine, or any other—to be proud of what you’ve accomplished, too.

John Robert McFarland