A Kind of Trust

There is in trust a kind of writing between the lines.  I trust you, but that trust expects acceptable outcomes—acceptable to me.  My blank slate of surrender has a lot of smudges around the edges—things like “Don’t let it hurt” and “Let me always understand.”

There is in trust a kind of whining between the lines—a whining that holds hands outstretched, unclenched; but my heart is hidden behind my back with fingers crossed because surrender is harder when fear and experience press.

Is there a kind of trust without the contraindications and small print—yours and mine—a trust that knows that it knows . . . that I am safe—safe in the care of someone not only able but willing to do good, and that good is somehow recognizable.

There is a trust, and I am learning and yearning for it.

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