Trust has never been a strong muscle of mine.
It got damaged early, often and severely by the time I was tip-toe in my teens.
I do, however, have a powerful muscle for survival.
I protected myself thoroughly and quickly.
It had side effects that would read as long as the fine print of any pharmaceutical prescription.
You know the ones that are so long you give up reading before you get to the line that says:
This could kill you. This could suck all the joy and the life out of you and leave you struggling for breath.
The atrophy of my trust muscle caused me to doubt my own ability to survive,
to make good decisions, to be imbued with the ability to recognize truth,
to be a vessel worthy of love and an aqueduct for joy.
Fear did a good job keeping me alive. I cannot fault it for doing that. I am grateful.
Trust in God did not come in a thunderstorm or a leap of faith or an act of obedience.
It is the only ancestral history that is more than a hobby. I look back and I see
the life-giving movement of the Spirit nudging a dehydrated soul to water. Time after time.
I look to the present and see glimpses what I only used to see in hindsight.
I take baby steps with healing muscles of trust.
When we pay attention, none of us are whole.
We are all in rehab.
When we pay attention, it is a good sign that we have been nudged alive into this new day.
It is a gift.
So when are you going to open it?