how much should you care?

a care isn't an embarrassment — what should you do with it?

It was the first time my father had ever seen me cry over a boy. Twenty-four years old and hurt, I felt a searing pain that I could not hide. My demeanor was that of a dead woman walking, and my father, reading me, asked if I was alright. I shrugged it off, probably told him I was tired or something, and continued shuffling around the kitchen. I did not want to tell him I was crying over a man; I had never really told him about any of my romantic endeavors.

I often joke that I show my mom the cake while it’s baking, and show my father the finished cake. He is a kind man, but also a very serious and intentional one. I did not want to introduce anyone to him until I was sure, let alone reveal my most recent failure. Not too long after, I decided there was an opportunity for growth in our relationship; I wanted to show him when the cake was baking, as well as when it was splattered on the floor.

I picked up the crumbs and hot pieces of fresh cake, steaming with heat and anguish from the floor of my kitchen, brought them in a pan, and showed them to him. Here’s how the cake had fallen apart earlier that morning:

I was sitting in the nail salon, and got a voice memo from the man I was seeing. He told me he was excited to see me, and leaving the salon, I wandered through the passageway, phone close to my mouth so I wouldn’t have to speak too loudly, and sent a voice memo to return the sentiment. As I pulled out of the parking garage and onto the road, I received a CarPlay notification that sounded a new voice memo, only minutes later, saying that he thinks we shouldn’t see each other any longer, amongst what I’ve chosen to forget and omit.

I had never felt such an oxymoronic experience. I fully expected this to happen, and also didn’t. Or maybe it’s not that I didn’t expect it to happen, but just in a different form? That’s neither here nor there, but the raw shock of it all made me feel so out of my body that I wept all the way home, calling my best friend as I turned into my parking garage and explained all of my suspicions, pains, and frantumaglia.

These are the pieces of the broken cake, and sitting in my father’s office a few hours later, my body could no longer hold its sadness; it was burdened unto the desire to share with another, and in one of my most vulnerable moments, I shared it with my father.

Through sobs and heaves, and fighting the embarrassment of crying about the situation at all, I told him the story, and he listened in a way that let me know that even if he didn’t fully understand, her understood the pain in the language of his daughter’s body and it was worthy enough to console her.

I left his office after, and spent days, probably, reeling about how I could be so deeply moved by a man who was never even that good to me; further, how I could be so deeply moved by another person that I could have tasted one of the deepest sadnesses I’ve ever known. It felt silly, but I remembered that I’m a woman who cares.

It’s just what I do. I’m not nonchalant, no matter how many times I have tried. I feel and I feel deeply. I do not ignore my pain; I validate it, and so much so that often I just ruminate on it and fall into a spiral. I have watched numerous videos about how to move through life as an untouchable being, but I remain one of the most touched people I know, and know an untouchable heart is not one that I desire — just a sober and tender one will do.

Caring has never been the problem, but it still leaves the question of how much you should care. And what should you do with it?

When I was in ministry school, we had a block about what to do in our “day of trouble” and walked through some scriptures about the disciples’ behaviors surrounding the death and resurrection of Jesus.

I don’t remember too many details, but what I did take away from it is that in this “day of trouble” or “dark night of the soul”, what you do with your cares matters deeply. It’s akin to the conversation about not falling into vices when the worst comes.

When I recall March 2nd, what I did the morning of, and the hours to follow, was something I would do again. I would cry out to God for consolation. I would speak to those whom I love. I would share my burdens with those I trust. And I would absolutely bake another tiramisu.

the post-dump tiramisu in question

How much should you care? Care as deeply as you desire, but be careful not to follow your vices into the pity party they have meticulously planned for you with all of your favorites. Care as much as you want, so long as it doesn’t lead you to a hardened heart. Care fully, and do not sin. Above all else, as in 1 Peter 5:7, cast “all your cares on him, because He cares about you.”

Your cares aren’t just for you, they’re for the casting upon Jesus. A heavy heart is truly a burden, but thank God He’s a “Burden Bearer, and a Heavy Load Sharer” (thank you, Vickie Winans). A caring heart is not an embarrassment; it’s a sign of life, a sign of tenderness, and it is welcomed by Jesus.

With love,

Rebecca