To the God I Refuse to Trust,
It must be earth within me that expects you to be salt, poisoning my growth and tainting the greenery, but more likely, it is the scaled body of a serpent twisting through my world perspective causing me to doubt who you promise to be.
Regardless. I don’t trust you.
But I want to. You have only been faithful and good to me through my preteen turbulence, teenage dreaminess, and this wild adulthood. You see me. Like a newborn, I need you to carry me forward, providing sustenance, and undying love. I don’t know how to let you.
I have been taught not to trust.
But I want to. Because your universe rhythm thumps through my veins. Time spent with you is a soul-breath, cleansing and quieting the husky coughs spawned by heart pollution and eye distraction.
I trust that you are not me and I am not God. Still, I fear you might be like me; a God like me would be terrifying.
There is no unrighteousness in you.
This is why I can trust you, because no one can claim that but you—not any god from mythology or history. You know their stories, their paths walked far from righteousness, deemed acceptable because of their deity. Man-made gods bear the same fickleness as their creators.
So to the God I refuse to trust, I open my palms and release my toes from the dirt into which they have dug. Help me to trust your goodness, your faithfulness, and your righteousness.
What About You?
What is so difficult about trust? Share your thoughts below!
Alysha says
Oh, I love this. It resonates deep within me.
Barbara says
Thank you. It’s been rattling around in me for a while.