My family attends a Unitarian Universalist church. We've been members for about three years now. It's a big beautiful sanctuary that was built in the 1920s after the first UU church in our town was flattened by an earthquake.

This past Sunday we showed up late, so we tiptoed up to the balcony with the kids. It just happened that the choir was sitting up there too, so the balcony was almost full. We decided to go back downstairs after we sang the children out to their Religious Education classes. "Go now in peace...Go now in peace...May the love of God surround you...everywhere, everywhere you may go." (Not everyone sings the God part, as a lot of UUs don't like "God-talk," but I'm not one of them.)

The kids zoomed down and out to their classrooms. Patrick and I followed adult-ly behind, picking our way down the steep staircase.

On the landing where the stairs take a sharp turn, a little boy of about four lay crying plaintively. He was curled up on his side as though he had fallen. People were sitting and standing around looking at him, and one person - I thought it was one of the teen boys who had been upstairs; from behind, this is how it looked - was kneeling over him, rubbing his back. 

This particular teen boy is sweet and very intelligent and kind, but often tries to insert himself into situations around the younger children in ways that make them uncomfortable. Adults often are called to gently guide him towards having relationship with the little ones in a less invasive way.

Within the space of a millisecond I was down there, kneeling next to the boy and scooping him up. He was crying hard, but he let me, and I asked him, "Where's your mommy?" 

The kneeling person looked up at me. "She's right here," she said, with more than a hint of surprise in her voice at this strange woman who had just scooped her crying child up from the floor in front of her.

This might not seem like a big deal to you if you are not a mother of young children. To me, this was a really big deal. I was immediately apoplectic with embarrassment.

All the people standing around were completely silent. I handed the still-wailing child to his mother, apologizing profusely and hoping for some nugget -- a dismissive laugh, a "that's okay," or a "I see that your intention was completely honorable and I thank you from the depths of my heart for recognizing that it really does take a village," from her to relieve my shame. Of course, she was more concerned with soothing her still-wailing child. I slunk away, my face burning, and stood in the now-quiet lobby. A kind usher tried to soothe me. Patrick stood by and waited without saying anything. 

I went through all my excuses and reasons in my mind. I had just read an article about how often people tend to look on when bad things happen and fail to step in. Kitty Genovese. The Holocaust. So I stepped in, in my small motherly way. And besides, why didn't that mom pick her kid up off the floor herself? What is HER problem, anyhow? Did she get that I did it because I didn't see that she was his mom from behind, that I mistook her for someone else? Did I traumatize her child irreparably, make him paranoid with stranger danger?

My wheels spun like this for a couple of minutes.Then I made a choice I have never made before. I chose to stand there and feel ashamed.

I stood there like that, one hand to my face, for a while. Tears welled up. My body tingled. This is what shame feels like to me. Then I looked up and told my husband I was ready to go inside. He understood what I was doing. He smiled and told me he was proud of me.

In the aftermath of this, I realize how many of my choices in life have been made in an effort to avoid feeling ashamed. The auditions I didn't go to, the contests I didn't enter, the career paths I didn't choose, the prospective partners I never approached, the ideas for classes I could teach that I didn't push for, the jobs I wanted but did not try to get: all of it an effort to avoid that feeling of being wrong, rejected - all of which boils down to wanting to avoid feeling shamed.

The fear of feeling rejected or ashamed or of being the target of derision or violence is certainly an important reason why people stand by and let bad things happen to others without intervening.  Now, that feeling, it sucks. It's awful. I only barely touched it, like my finger to a hot pan, and pulled it away. But I survived. Here's hoping I have lots more occasions to feel shame, so I get really good at it, and I stop fearing it, and I can be bolder in my life.

After the service I talked to the child's mother again. She said exactly the reassuring things to me I had hoped to hear earlier, and that he was perfectly okay. She is a gentle and sweet mommy and she felt gratitude, not resentment or anger as I feared she'd feel.

I'm glad she didn't reassure me right away, because I had an opportunity to marinate a little in my shame. Thanks, God.