Do You Trust Me?

Do you trust me?

Today, I sit with the sun on my face, my hands, my laptop screen turning that question over and over in my restive mind.

Do you trust me?

If I asked you this question, if the words were coming from me about me, I suppose you’d respond based on how well you knew me.  If your mother or brother or sister asked, maybe your best friend or your spouse, I’m guessing you’d have an easier time answering.  What if the question came from someone you had never held in your hands or arms or beheld with your own eyes?

Do you trust me?

This time, for me, the question blooms from the latter.  You see, this ferociously beautiful question underlies the most basic fractures of myself, the foundations of all I cling to or claim to be.  This question burrows into my “heart,” which is simply another word for my soul, flourishes there and demands a true answer – no dissembling, no spinning, just acknowledging with all that I have and am.

I left Arizona a year ago in pursuit of a different life, in pursuit of a path – a dream – I knew that He had planned.  He had laid the cobblestones perfectly, and all I need do was follow.  So, I packed up my life, left behind what I knew, and followed.  His voice still echoes clearly telling me that was the life to which He was calling.  Fear coexisted, but I knew He held me – the fire in my soul, in my bones, in my eyes.

Do you trust me?

So, then what do you do when it all comes down? When every step you took in pursuit of your new life twists under you, leaving you lame and frail?  If you know me, you know I had a TBI relapse (“Crisis” fits well here, too.) last September – no warning, no flashy trailer of the coming attraction – just the devastating crash.  What, then, am I left to believe?  The fear doused the fire.

The night I left North Carolina for adequate medical treatment far to the North, a friend asked me what of which I was most afraid.  I think I had three fears that in themselves could’ve blazed across the galaxies:  I would never return to my new home, I would never finish my MFA, I would stay where I was headed for the foreseeable future.  He replied with something that comforted, but couldn’t give me what I wanted most: reassurance that my fears weren’t valid.

Do you trust me?

It’s a choice, really, isn’t it?  When it comes down to everything we believe, faith is a choice.  Do we trust that who we are, what we are, what happens to us when we follow Him is ultimately for our good as He promises?  Even if the pain and fears sear so deeply that getting out of bed each day weighs like an unbearable decision, believing – trusting – hoping – praying, is a choice.  More than that, it’s His gift to us.

I’m not ready or strong enough yet to thank Him for this bend in my road, but even a broken, halting Hallelujah is a Hallelujah.  He is still mine, and I will trust.