Part 1: The House that Helped Build Me

I grew up in a house full of helpers.

My dad was a pastor, and my mom had the gift of seeing needs before others even knew how to express them. Their lives were a living sermon on love, sacrifice, and humility. They didn’t just teach us to put others first, they lived it. It was the air we breathed.

I have two older sisters and a younger brother. And it probably won’t surprise you to hear that three of us became nurses and the other one became a teacher. Helping others wasn’t a rule in our home, it was the rhythm of our lives. We learned that true success wasn’t in being seen but in seeing others. Not in receiving, but in giving.

I remember one day when our house was robbed and a few of my dad’s tools were stolen. I asked him, “Are we going to call the police?” I don’t remember if we actually did, but I’ll never forget his response. He said, “If someone is going to go through the trouble of breaking into our house, they must need it more than me.”

That was my dad. That was our home.

We didn’t always have a lot. But my parents always found a way to meet someone else’s need, whether it was groceries, a couch to sleep on, or a few hours of their time. I have a list of names of people that lived with us for a season because they had nowhere else to go. My mom took care of kids because their families couldn't. My dad could spend all day working and still take a call at night from someone in crisis, then drive for hours just to be present. And they never acted like it was extraordinary. It was just who they were.

And because I watched them, I thought that’s what it meant to live a meaningful life.

I also thought that’s what humility looked like—putting yourself last, saying yes, meeting needs, stepping up, pouring out. It made sense to me, especially with what the Bible teaches about humility. I was created by God to be a helper. So helping was a no-brainer.

But here's the thing I didn’t understand until much later: there’s a difference between helping from a place of wholeness and helping because you feel like your worth depends on it.

In the early years, helping others was simple. I had time, energy, flexibility. I could volunteer at church, lend a hand to a friend, or step in when someone needed a meal or a ride. And I loved it. But life got fuller—and heavier. Marriage. A job. Five kids. Responsibilities. Sacrifices. Now helping someone wasn’t just giving up an hour—it meant giving up sleep, skipping a meal, missing time with my own family. And I found myself in a place where helping no longer filled me. Sometimes, it drained me.

Especially when the help wasn’t noticed. Or appreciated. Or even acknowledged.

If the person I helped was happy with me, it felt good. It gave me energy. It made the sacrifice worth it. But when they didn’t see the effort, or expected it without even a thanks, something in me would shrink. I wouldn’t just feel tired, I’d feel invisible.

I started telling myself this story:

“It wasn’t enough. I’m not enough.”

I want to say this as clearly as I can: that’s not humility. That’s a lie!

But I didn’t know that yet. Not at that time. I only knew how to keep helping, keep pouring out, keep proving, mostly to myself, that I was good enough, useful enough, godly enough.

It would take a long journey, one I’ll share more about in future posts, for me to realize that humility doesn’t mean thinking less of yourself. As C.S. Lewis said so beautifully, “Humility is not thinking less of yourself, it is thinking of yourself less.” 

The home I grew up in planted seeds of compassion, service, and sacrifice. And I’m endlessly grateful for that. But I’ve had to learn that my value doesn’t come from how many people I help or how appreciated I am. My value comes from who I am: a child of God. Beautifully and wonderfully made.

This blog series is my way of sharing that journey, from living as a helper who felt invisible to becoming a woman who knows her worth, lives her faith, and serves from a place of wholeness, not insecurity.

If you’ve ever felt invisible in the act of doing good... if you’ve ever confused sacrifice with self-erasure... if you’ve ever wondered whether humility meant disappearing, then this is for you.

Because your story matters. And so do you.

Reflection Prompt:
What early messages did you receive about helping others and being humble? How have those shaped the way you see yourself today?