CARE – A QUESTION. . .A RESPONSE, PART I. . .

What does ‘to care’ mean? ‘Care’ is a powerful word. ‘Care’ is an ambivalent word. ‘Care is a meaning-less word. ‘Care’ is a word with many meanings. Consider the following:
• ‘I will take care of him.’ Think of all of the meanings contained within these six words. Here are two: ‘I will take care of him and help him get to the hospital.’ ‘I will take care of him by breaking his legs.’ Tender compassion and violent attack.
• ‘Do you want coffee or juice?’ ‘I don’t care.’ Or: ‘Do you want to stay home or take a walk?’ ‘I don’t care.’ The ‘I don’t care’ response can be truly neutral – one really does not care which action is taken or the ‘I don’t care’ response can be an expression of indifference, if not apathy.

At times it seems, to me anyway, that ‘not to care’ is more popular than ‘to care.’ A care-free approach to life seems more inviting than a care-full one does.

‘Care’ as I understand it is not ambiguous nor is it ambivalent; it excludes ‘indifference’ and is the opposite (or is it the antidote?) to ‘apathy’ ‘Care’ is rooted in the Germanic Gothic word ‘Kara.’ ‘Kara’ means lament. Given this, one basic meaning of ‘Care’ is ‘to grieve, to experience sorrow, to cry out with.’ I was stopped short when I first learned of the root of ‘Care’ and this old meaning. To ‘Care’ in this way means that I accept the invitation to experience discomfort (mild to intense) as I enter into another’s pain. ‘Care,’ in this sense, seems to equate with ‘empathy’ (it is empathy plus action). Before I care (i.e. act), I choose to enter into and feel the other’s plight or pain.

As I reflected upon my life this morning (a year-end habit of mine) I became aware that the people who chose to embrace me and my pain (or my fear or confusion or wounds or powerlessness) and not attempt to ‘fix it’ or to ‘fix me’ were those who I believed deeply cared for me. I also reflected that when I was able to ‘be with the other’ in his or her pain, fear, confusion, wounds, etc. and open myself to ‘feeling’ as the person felt that I was received by the other as a caring person (sadly, I also cannot begin to count the number of times I led with ‘I am going to help you fix it or I am going to fix you!’ – neither approach did not work out well for either of us).

Can I sit with you for an hour and care for you? That is, can I sit with you for an hour and not ‘know’ or not ‘help’ or not ‘cure’ or not ‘fix’ or ‘not make it better’ or not offer ‘shallow words’ like ‘it will be o.k.’ or even ‘this too shall pass’? When I sat with another I can recall the temptation to say things like: ‘Don’t be sad because there is light at the end of the tunnel.’ Talk about ‘lame uncaring words.’ When I am honest with myself I admit that I offered such words in order that I felt better (think: less anxious or less fearful).

I have had my caring moments. One day I was sitting with my mother – a month or so after my father’s sudden death (they had been together for 66 years). I remember saying: ‘I don’t understand either. I don’t know what to do or to tell you.’ We sat together in silence for some time (a long time for my mother). Then she began to tell me stories – some I knew and some were new to me. We laughed and we cried. We grieved together. We cared for each other.