***************another recycled post
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.