I used to be ashamed and embarrassed of my kindness

Soft hearted. Kind hearted. Those were things that were used as slightly insulting euphemisms about kindness. Those were criticisms bandied about by people whose opinions and praise I valued. The charges that brought those terms up, caring about people. 

I used to be ashamed and embarrassed of my kindness. Truly I used to be ashamed about caring. Which in my faith now, the place I am now, feels insane.

There’s nothing more Christlike about seeing suffering and doing what we can to relieve it. “If you do it to the least of these,” has echoed in brain since I heard it. Yet I used to be ashamed about trying to do that.

 It’s funny because my entire adult life has turned into service, of some kind. I began with a mission. I went into the military, where I was a medic. I came out into healthcare. I still work in mental health and substance treatment, in a role requiring me to leverage my vulnerabilities and personal experiences. I have volunteered at a crisis line. My entire adult life is dedicated to serving others. Sometimes it’s even come at the detriment of being available and showing up for my family. But it’s been there.

And I should embrace that part of me.

I should embrace the part of me that realized the power of the atonement to change is the knowledge or belief that someone knows the depth of  YOUR specific despair. That empathy is most powerful when there are some shared experiences.

I should embrace the fact that everyone deserves dignity. Everyone deserves respect. Taking the higher road without expecting them to earn it costs us nothing.

I should embrace a sense of mercy. Because I want that for myself in so many aspects of my life.

I should embrace the fact that I care more about everyone having something in their bowl than I care about having the most.

I should embrace the fact that the only barriers I see preventing me from helping others is the threat of active harm to others. 

I should embrace the fact that I cried over loss and felt the grief that comes from trying to help people that can’t always accept. That aren’t always ready to change.

I should embrace the fact I’ve grown comfortable with mortality. That I don’t fear death anymore. But that I still feel the grief of loss.

I care. I feel. And I’m not going to be shamed back into be numb, calloused, or burnt out anymore.

Cause that’s not the Christ I’ve tried (and often failed) to follow. He wants better for me. He wants better for the people I care about. His validation is what matters. My families validation matters. How I feel about my self matters. 

It’s amazing how recentering that has been. How motivating. Because,

“37 Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?

38 When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?

39 Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?

40 And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

Matthew 25:37-40

I finally have the confidence to never feel like a sucker or a schmuck for trying to help or just by caring again.