A few years ago, I found myself in a meeting with a serving SAS soldier. How that meeting came about is a story for another day!

We had started the meeting, were working our way through the agenda, and everything was going perfectly normally when he suddenly interrupted.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’ve failed in my personal administration.”

I looked at him, slightly alarmed. What on earth had happened? What had he forgotten? What had gone wrong?

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

That was it. He needed the loo!

I remember looking at him and thinking, goodness me, that’s quite a way of describing something entirely normal.

But what struck me was that he genuinely regarded it as a failure in his personal administration. We had set aside time for a meeting, and he felt that he should have organised himself sufficiently well beforehand that his own needs wouldn’t interrupt it.

Now, before we go any further, as someone who lives with inflammatory bowel disease, I feel obliged to point out that sometimes our bodies have other ideas! There are perfectly legitimate medical reasons why someone might need to leave a meeting, and we are, after all, human beings rather than machines.

Nevertheless, that little exchange has stayed with me.

Not because I think we should all apologise for going to the toilet, but because it raised an interesting question.

How much attention do I give to managing myself so that I can fulfil the commitments I’ve made to other people?

Recently, I was listening to The Diary of a CEO, featuring a former CIA officer. She was talking about the importance of not allowing yourself to become an obstacle to the work you’re there to do.

Her point, as I understood it, was that our responsibility is to fulfil the task entrusted to us, rather than constantly making decisions based on how we happen to feel, what we prefer, what we’re afraid of, or what makes us comfortable.

That really made me think.

How often do we allow our mood to determine our actions? How often do we make decisions because something feels uncomfortable rather than because it’s the right thing to do? How often do our preferences take precedence over our commitments?

And perhaps most importantly, how much responsibility do we take for preparing ourselves to do the things we’ve agreed to do?

There is a difference between genuinely being unable to do something and simply not feeling like doing it. There is a difference between recognising our limitations and allowing our preferences to govern our decisions.

Of course, this isn’t an argument for pushing ourselves relentlessly, ignoring illness or pretending that our emotional and physical wellbeing don’t matter. Quite the opposite.

It’s an argument for taking the stewardship of ourselves seriously.

We often talk in church about stewardship in relation to money. We might talk about stewarding our time, our talents or the resources God has given us.

But what about stewarding ourselves?

What about the way we prepare for the responsibilities we’ve accepted? The way we manage our energy? The way we look after our bodies? The way we respond when our emotions, fears or preferences threaten to distract us from what matters?

In 1 Corinthians 6:19–20, Paul reminds the Christians in Corinth that their bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit and that they are to honour God with their bodies.

The immediate context is about sexual morality, but the passage also reminds us of something fundamental: our bodies are not insignificant to our spiritual lives. They matter to God.

And in Romans 12:1, Paul urges believers to offer their bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God, describing this as true and proper worship.

I find that fascinating.

Worship isn’t simply what happens when we sing on a Sunday morning. It involves the offering of our whole selves to God.

Our bodies. Our minds. Our attitudes. Our choices. Our commitments.

Perhaps that means there is something deeply spiritual about learning to manage ourselves well.

Getting enough rest so that we can serve effectively. Preparing properly for a meeting because other people’s time matters. Doing something we’ve committed to even when our enthusiasm has disappeared. Recognising when fear is influencing our decisions. And, equally, knowing when we genuinely need to stop, rest or ask for help.

Because stewardship isn’t about proving how much we can endure. It’s about being faithful with what we’ve been given.

Jesus himself withdrew to quiet places to pray. He slept. He ate. He experienced tiredness. He understood the limitations of human life.

And yet he also demonstrated extraordinary intentionality about the work his Father had given him to do.

That combination challenges me.

Perhaps the question isn’t simply, “Am I doing enough?”

Perhaps it’s, “Am I taking responsibility for the person God has entrusted to me, so that I can be faithful in the things he has entrusted me to do?”

I don’t think I’ll ever describe needing the toilet as a failure in personal administration.

But I suspect I’ll remember that SAS soldier for a very long time.

Because he reminded me that the way we manage ourselves can be an expression of the value we place on other people.

And perhaps, for Christians, it can also be an expression of our worship.

Not because God demands perfection.

But because everything we have, including ourselves, is a gift worth stewarding well.