Last Resort or Graciously Accepted Invitation
Lent Reflection #7
Trust is a weighty word. Heavy to hold. Even heavier to practice. It requires vulnerability. It involves risk. Sometimes it is an act of last resort. Others a graciously accepted invitation.
Psalm 31 is a lament. A prayer of deliverance from enemies. It is one of the psalms included in the Gospel accounts of Jesus’ suffering and crucifixion. In Luke, Jesus cries out from this psalm saying “into your hands I commit my spirit.”
Although the exact nature of the dangers threatening the psalmist are unknown, clearly, they are seeking refuge and safety. Like many in uncertain and fearful times, the psalmist’s emotions are all over the place. In one verse speaking to a plot against their life and in the next declaring total trust in God.
In my wanderings this Lent, I have remembered times when I have trusted (in God, others, myself) because I believed I had no other option. I have reflected on moments when I trusted because something deep within whispered it was time to let go.
I have also been thinking deeply about those in perilous circumstances today. What does trust look like for those most vulnerable? Immigrants? Asylum seekers? Trans youth and adults? Seniors and children who rely on social services to survive? Where do we place our trust when political systems align with power and greed? When Christianity partners with empire?
A few weeks ago, Diana McLean—a new friend and fellow author—who also published a book of poetry with Tehom Center Publishing, shared a post titled, Trusting Life on her Substack. These gentle words explore the question “What can you trust, right now?”
Diana’s question shaped my reading of Psalm 31 and also inspired a new poem. I share this poem below. Take a read and/or a listen.
Maybe you find trust easy. Or maybe past experiences leave you uneasy of trusting anyone or anything. I invite you to sit with trust and feel whatever comes to the surface. Maybe make a list of things you can trust right now. Remind yourself the list can and will change. Return to this list when you need it most.
Things I Can Trust Right Now ©Rebecca Wilson, March 23, 2025 in a world of shifting vaults shaking earth and quaking doubts here are things I can trust right now the wind blowing off the water landing on my face the footprints my sneakers leave in the snow the mud that paints the soul the ageless rocks and softening sand the gentle raindrop in my hand the blue birds singing while swinging on red vines standing out among brown branches the seagulls perched on power lines the curiosity flowing and wonder growing the art of unknowing the trail I’m walking the future I’m creating the signs marking the path the stickers on the bathroom wall the hearts etched into the stall the support of wobbly railings the rest of unlevel benches the barista pouring my lavender latte with pronouns proudly pinned to their apron the neighbor ringing the bell right before delivering a basket of fresh peaches the stranger in the store handing me a coupon saying maybe you need this the smell of bacon for Saturday brunch the conversation I had over lunch with an old friend the courage to try again the audacity to begin the monsters gone from under the bed the rocking chair in the corner the silence of 4 AM on Sunday morning the new pack of brightly colored pens resting on a soft covered journal the last few pages asking to be filled the Lucille Clifton poems and Mary Oliver essays on the ottoman the invitation to read them one letter at a time the watch that hasn’t worked in years sitting beautifully on my wrist the gentle giver who gifted it the reminder that broken is beautiful the smell of spring and clean laundry the feel of a freshly laundered blanket draping over me the first sip of coffee from the mug she made me and filled with chocolates the last drop of chamomile tea blueberries and licorice the dog sleeping burrowed deeply into my hip memories of the life I’ve lived and the dreams I’ve dreamt the ones that came true and those that keep me spent the love I’ve found the one I lost searching for my own heart the way it stopped beating right before I found the story’s meaning my instinct the voice calling come along let’s go chase the moon together the stars guiding our way the sun that just might rise another day
If you are following the Lenten journey, we are now in the middle of Holy Week. The next few days are quite an adventure, filled with highs and lows, hopes and doubts, life and death, and possibilities of a different way.
This Friday, we will have another special Friday Field Trip. This time heading deeper into the mystery of Holy Week. I’ll be sharing a poem about a tender experience washing my great-grandmother’s feet when I was a teenager.
Friday Field Trips are a second serving of words and water for paid subscribers to Wednesdays at the Well. Consider becoming a paid subscriber or upgrade your subscription today to save your seat. Your support empowers me and 10 Camels to continue cultivating creativity and stirring transformation.
Water-fully Yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels
P.S. Subscribe to Diana’s Substack, Love-Colored Glasses and order a copy of her powerful collection of poetry Love is Why. Trust me, you’ll be glad you did.
As always, thanks for your insightful sharing. I had a wonderful teacher in trust in my mother who persevered despite many life tragedies but who believed and went forward with love and courage.
It’s been a journey learning to trust my intuition.