Little Wren Writes

Kindness can often just be about being ‘nice’.

Smile at people. Hold the door open. Send the encouraging text. Buy someone a cup of tea. Basically don’t be a jerk.

All excellent life advice.

But lately I’ve been thinking that the kindnesses which have mattered most to me have had something else in common.

They came from people who knew me. Not necessarily people who had grand solutions. Just people who knew me well enough to notice what I needed.

There is a particular kind of kindness in being known. It’s the friend who makes you tea without asking because they already know how you take it. The person who notices you’ve gone quiet in a crowded room. The friend who sends you a ridiculous meme because they know you need to laugh. The person who knows you don’t need advice right now. The one who knows when “I’m fine” means I’m fine…and when it very much does not.

There is something deeply comforting about not having to explain yourself from the beginning. To be known is to be able to exhale. But being known is also strangely terrifying. Because being noticed is one thing. Being known means letting somebody closer. It means eventually they discover that you’re not always the person you present to the rest of the world.

They see the contradictions. The annoying habits. The insecurities. The things you overthink. The things you pretend don’t bother you. The parts of your story you don’t lead with when introducing yourself.

And somewhere underneath all of that sits a frightening little question: If you really knew me, would you still love me?

One of my favourites quotes that touches on being known and loved is by Tim Keller:

“To be loved but not known is comforting but superficial. To be known and not loved is our greatest fear. But to be fully known and truly loved is, well, a lot like being loved by God.”

I think that’s why being deeply known by another person is such a gift – it’s like a small snippet of God’s love for us.

It’s not simply because they know your favourite tea but because they’ve seen something of the mess and haven’t run away. They know the story and still pull up a chair. They know you’re complicated and still answer the phone. There’s a kindness in that which goes far beyond niceness.

But I’ve also discovered that real kindness isn’t always soft.

Sometimes kindness says, “No.”
Sometimes it says,
“You need to go home.”
“You need to rest.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“That wasn’t okay.”
“I love you too much to pretend I haven’t noticed.”

Those moments don’t always feel kind. Especially when I’m on the receiving end. I much prefer kindness that arrives with baked goods. But I’ve learned that some of the kindest people in my life are the ones who refuse to give me everything I want, or to hold back from telling me everything I need to hear. They know me well enough to know that sometimes what I want and what I need are not the same thing. Sometimes I need to hear hard truths whether I can handle it or not.

They love me enough to risk annoying me – sometimes they even risk hurting me or our relationship as a way of loving me.

That’s actually kindness too. Maybe especially so. Because real kindness requires attention. You can’t love people particularly well without paying attention to them. You have to notice. You have to learn them.

What makes them laugh? What makes them withdraw? What they talk about when they’re excited? What do they stop talking about when they’re hurting? What helps? What absolutely does not help? What makes them feel safe? What makes them feel seen?

Kindness isn’t one-size-fits-all.

What feels loving to one person can feel overwhelming to another. What comforts one person can irritate the life out of someone else.

Sometimes loving people well means asking, “What would kindness look like for you today?” And then actually listening to the answer.

I’ve been the recipient of a lot of kindness. Not always dramatic kindness. Mostly ordinary kindness.

Meals. Messages. Hugs.
People remembering things. Someone sitting beside me, making me laugh or checking whether I’ve eaten.

None of these things would make the news. But they have changed days. Some of them have changed me. And I think that’s because kindness says something bigger than the action itself.

It says:

I noticed you – you matter enough for me to pay attention.

Maybe that’s why kindness feels so powerful when life is hard. Pain can make you feel strangely invisible. The world keeps moving. People go to work. Traffic lights change. Groceries need buying. Emails keep arriving with alarming confidence.

And you’re standing there thinking, “Does nobody realise my entire world has changed? Or perhaps even collapsed?”

Then somebody notices. Not everything – they can’t. And it’s unfair to expect them to. But they notice enough.
And for a moment, you don’t feel quite so alone inside your own life.

There is a little story about Jesus that I keep coming back to.
A woman has been bleeding for twelve years. She has spent everything she has trying to get better. She reaches through a crowd and touches Jesus’ cloak. She’s hoping to remain anonymous. Jesus could have kept walking. The healing had already happened. Problem solved.

But He stops. “Who touched me?”

The disciples basically respond, “Jesus, everyone is touching you. Have you seen this crowd?” But He keeps looking. Eventually, the woman comes forward. And Jesus calls her “Daughter.”

I love that. He didn’t just heal her body. He saw her. And I think there’s a difference. He could have allowed her to slip quietly back into the crowd with a healed body. Instead, He stopped and gave her dignity. He gave her His attention. He called her daughter. In a crowd full of people demanding something from Him, Jesus noticed one frightened woman trying desperately not to be noticed.

That’s the sort of kindness I want to understand. Because the God of Scripture doesn’t simply know facts about us. He knows us. Psalm 139 says He knows when I sit and when I rise. He knows my thoughts. My movements. My words before I speak them.

There are days when I find that comforting.
There are other days when I find it mildly terrifying.

Because being fully known sounds wonderful until you remember what fully means. God knows the bits I’d happily edit out. The selfish thoughts. The jealousy. The impatience. The fear. The neediness. The things I’ve done for the wrong reasons. The things I haven’t done at all. The contradictions. The mess. The parts of me I don’t completely understand myself.

He knows all of it.

There is no carefully curated version of myself I can present to God. No impressive introduction. No hiding the worst bits behind the better ones. He already knows.

And still…kindness.

That’s what gets me. God doesn’t love the carefully edited version of me. He doesn’t love the version I present when I’m coping well, saying the right things and being particularly useful. He doesn’t merely tolerate me because Jesus somehow persuaded Him to.

He knows me. Fully. And He loves me. Completely.

That’s what Keller’s words capture so beautifully. Being loved without really being known might feel safe, but somewhere underneath it sits the question:

“Would they still love me if they knew?”

With God, that question has already been answered.

He knows. And He loves.

Not a future, improved version of me. Not the person I might eventually become if I finally get everything right.

Me.

And His kindness doesn’t mean He leaves me exactly as I am. Paul writes that it is God’s kindness that leads us to repentance. I love that! It’s not God’s humiliation. Not His impatience. Not shame. His kindness.

The kindness of God doesn’t pretend sin doesn’t matter. It matters enough that Jesus died for it. But neither does God shame us into transformation. He loves us towards it. He knows us too well to pretend the broken parts aren’t there. And He loves us too deeply to abandon us to them.

I think that’s why the kindness of people has taught me so much about the kindness of God. Every time someone has known something difficult about me and stayed…
Every time someone has seen me at less than my best and responded gently…
Every time someone has told me the truth because they loved me…
Every time someone has noticed…

I’ve caught a tiny glimpse of Him.

And it makes me want to become better at noticing too. Not fixing everyone. Not rescuing everyone. Not exhausting myself trying to meet every need. Just paying attention. Learning people. Asking better questions. Remembering what matters to them. Being brave enough to tell the truth when kindness requires it. Giving people the extraordinary gift of not having to be impressive around me. And occasionally arriving with baked goods.

I don’t think kindness needs to be spectacular to be holy. Sometimes it is simply the gift of saying:

I see you.
I know something of your story.
You don’t have to perform here.
And I’m still here.

God knows my story completely.
The beautiful parts. The embarrassing parts. The faithful parts. The parts that still need a lot of work. There isn’t a single corner of me He hasn’t seen. And somehow, wonderfully, there isn’t a single corner from which His love has fled.

To be known like that – and loved like that…

I think that’s the deepest kindness of all!

“Or do you show contempt for the riches of his kindness, forbearance and patience, not realising that God’s kindness is intended to lead you to repentance?” 
Romans 2:4