Part 1: The House that Helped Build Me

I grew up in a home where helping others wasn't a rule, it was the rhythm of our lives.

My dad was a pastor, and my mom had the gift of seeing someone's need before they even expressed it. They taught us that true success wasn't in being seen, but in seeing others. Not receiving, but in giving. So it will come as no surprise that of their four kids, three became nurses and one a teacher. 

We didn’t always have a lot growing up, but my parents always found a way to meet the needs of people around us. Whether it was sharing vegetables with a neighbor, letting a kid in the youth group sleep on our couch, or spending a few hours with someone that just needed a friend, my parents were always willing to do whatever they could to help. 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. My parent's lives were a living testimony of love, sacrifice, and humility. 

And because I watched them, I thought that’s what it meant to live a life of humility and service - putting yourself last, saying yes, meeting needs, stepping up, pouring out. 

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......it drained me.

Especially when the help wasn’t noticed. 

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 be a long journey, and I’ll share more about it 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 because of whose I am and who I am, a child of God. Beautifully and wonderfully made.

This blog series is my way of sharing the journey, from living as a helper who felt invisible to becoming a woman who lives her faith, and serves from a place of wholeness, not insecurity. And it's a journey I am still on and always will be. 

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.

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