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.

Trusting the path at Longwood Gardens in Pennsylvania last summer.

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.