All this: waiting, anxiety, leaning, trusting...for a follow-up appointment with the Vet. During our last visit he endured much more than either of us expected, and although the treatment was for his benefit, today's apprehension was reasonable. There we were, back again at a place unpreferred for a purpose surpassing his comprehension. And yet he didn't bolt for the door or act out in terror or anger, because of his trust in me. I told him he would be okay, and he believed me.
When we got home I praised him and then set about to wash the sheets. On my walk to the laundry room I thought of a little boy: the one I taught to speak. First the letters and their sounds, simple sentences, then more complex. He mimics my soft "th" in thing, gentler than a more brisk "th" in the. He believes me when I pronounce d-o-e-s as "duz" instead of, well, "does," while neither reason nor rule can explain why.
This trust-- confidence in the validity and authority of my words-- never fails to humble me. I know my weaknesses, I'm aware of the limitations of my knowledge, my head hangs at the memory of all the times I've been impatient, inconsistent.
And yet, this little boy calls my name and searches my soul with eyes big and wide and trusting. He seeks truth. He tests his experiences against it. He craves the warm & fuzzies of hearing truth repeated.
"Ms. Jac'yn, we don't push people, right?"
"That's right, we don't push people."
He reflects for a moment and tells me of a boy at school who got in trouble for pushing.
"Ms. Jac'yn, it's not nice to say, 'You're not my friend. Get away from me!' right?"
"That's right, it's not a very nice thing to say. What's a nicer way to say we don't want to play?" He recites a few of the "kind" phrases we've practiced.
"Ms. Jac'yn, the ocean is too dangerous, right? A shark will eat us, right?"
I hear the influence of those around him in his questions. He's heard me say not to push people but because he sees it happen he needs to come back and be assured. I've modeled kind phrases he might use socially but because emotional webs are sticky and appear out of nowhere, he needs direction for his heart and others'. Maybe we've never talked about ocean safety but someone has communicated fear, and he wants to fact-check.
As I pour laundry soap my legs recall the weight of Emerson's lean as we were surrounded by fur and breath and chaos. My mind hears the sweet, sweet voice of a little boy repeating constantly, "right Ms. Jac'yn?" as he tests the whole world against my words. I put the pieces together and see that this, this, is how my Father wants me to trust him.
In unpreferred waiting rooms do I lean on Him or on my own understanding of the situation? Do I mimic the tones of his voice? Do I run to his ear to fact-check, just because I enjoy his truth? When He tells me I'll be okay, do I believe it?
These are my models for trust: the beautiful faith-filled hearts of children (and pets), secure and precious. Their faith is profound and my frame senses its thirst for deeper roots.
It's so easy to become confused and scared and unsure. The serpent of old hisses syrupy, asking us to believe in our experiences and wisdom, instead of putting both under the authority of the Word. But as we learn to take each thing back to our Authority, the Author and Perfecter of our faith, he is so good to clean the gunk out of our ears and wrap us in flawless truth. What did God say about the one who trusts him? He is blessed. She will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. (Jeremiah 17:7-8)
Trust is the beginning. It starts at the root, in the depth of my heart. Trust establishes my stance and steadies my soul. It precedes fruit, and makes me "blessed."
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