What Speaks the Loudest

I’ve never set out to “help people biblically.” Honestly, that always felt too big for me, like something reserved for folks who had perfect lives and memorized wisdom ready to dispense at a moment’s notice.

I’m not that person. But somewhere along the way, I realized I could live out the spirit of what I believed without ever sounding religious or quoting anything. I could show up quietly, consistently, and imperfectly.

One of the first times it clicked for me was at a drive-through on an ordinary Tuesday. I noticed the woman behind me counting coins in her cup holder.

It wasn’t dramatic or heartbreaking, just a tiny moment of struggle I happened to see. On impulse, I paid for the woman’s order.

No note, no explanation, and I didn’t stay to watch her reaction. Something about the hiddenness of it felt right, like generosity that didn’t need a witness was the purest kind.

I started noticing that most people aren’t desperate for advice; they’re desperate to be heard. Take my friend Mark.

He called me one night, frustrated with his job, his kids, his everything. Old me would’ve had a five-point plan ready.

Instead, I let him talk. I didn’t fix anything, and I didn’t try.

When he finally sighed, he said, “Thanks, I just needed someone to listen.”

There was the time I showed up at Jenna’s house a week after her mom’s funeral. The casseroles had stopped, the texts had slowed, and everyone else had moved on.

I dropped off groceries and stayed long enough to help fold some clothes. We talked about the laundry, and somehow, that made things easier.

Forgiveness is hard for me. I’m not naturally good at it, but when a coworker threw me under the bus years ago for something she’d done, I forced myself to let it go publicly.

Not passive-aggressively, and not “I’ll forgive but never forget.” I genuinely tried to release it.

And when people asked if I was mad, I just said, “No, life’s too short.”

It surprised them, and honestly, it surprised me too.

One of my favorites is using my skills to help others. I’ve created résumés for neighbors who moved here with nothing but courage, assisted a single mom in getting to work, and babysat for friends who can’t afford childcare but desperately need a night off.

I’ve even helped write obituaries for those overwhelmed with grief. None of it is glamorous, but all of it feels like love with its sleeves rolled up.

I try to give actual compliments, not the generic kind. I told a cashier last week, “You’re incredibly good at making people feel welcome,” and her eyes filled like I’d handed her a thousand dollars.

People hear criticism all day. A sincere word lands like water on dry ground.

And then there are the parties. My table is usually full of “wrong” people, neighbors who don’t fit together, coworkers who don’t like each other, folks who don’t get invited anywhere. But, somehow, the mismatched nights end up being the most joyful ones.

I’m learning to ask for help, too, which still feels vulnerable. But every time someone shows up for me, it stitches my faith in humanity a little tighter.

What I’ve realized is that people rarely remember the things you say. But they remember how you treated them when they are tired, lonely, grieving, embarrassed, or broke.

If I can help someone feel seen, actually seen, then maybe that’s the most quietly biblical thing I’ll ever do.