Tag Archives: trust

Can God Earn My Trust?

I have put my trust in the Lord God, that I may declare your works.

{Psalm 73:28b, NKJV}

There’s something about God I really appreciate.

He’s Trustworthy.

He is worth my trust.

He dignifies me–my mind, my body, my spirit–by earning my trust.

And, he does the same for you, too.

It’s one of God’s characteristics that draws us to him intimately, personally, and proves that he’s interested in a relationship with each of us and not after our religious actions. He wants to help us understand: life, ourselves, him. By being constantly trustworthy, he says, “I care about you”.

And he is impeccable in his trustworthy manner. He never sloughs off his dutiful attention to earning our trust. He can’t. He simply cannot not be trusted. Read the rest of this post…


Filed under Faith, life, Stories from Scripture, Uncategorized

It’s All In The Reaching Up {A little lesson in listening}

She was the latest of my children to begin the mastery of speech, but once she did, quiet moments were rare and coincided with her sleep schedule.

She had much to say mostly about princesses and how Disneyland needed her to come visit the castle.

She seemed to have an opinion about everything, and often rattled through her day grumbling or singing happy tunes, depending on her mood. And she had moods because she was three.

She would come beside me and pull me close to her and whisper in my ear. And funny girl, when she whispered, she had nothing to say.

She just whispered wind.

But she loved the idea of a secret to share.

She whispered with the posture of a sage as if her words carried great import.

The meaning wasn’t in the words, the value was in the sharing.

And the treasure was that it was my ear that she reached for, my attention she craved.

So I leaned in and listened for a trace of purpose to her shushing speech, not to hear great things, but to get nearer to her heart.

Because what girl will share big secrets to a parent who could not bend and pause to hear the little ones? Could she trust me with the weightier stuff of life if I had not handled the nonsense handled with equal care?

Because I knew this girl and loved her for it. I knew that expression was her talent and relationships her medium.

She would toddle away, secret told, and get lost in a world of make-believe where families of dolls, or worms, or grapes, or even her own chubby fingers had she nothing to manipulate, would talk to one another. I could see her making one be a daddy, one a brother, one a beautiful-princess-sister, one a kitten…and they would all talk to one another in a world of words.

These miniature characters were chattering about lunch or the park or a beautiful dress, but I could hear their words distilling into a few magical phrases: Do you hear me? Are you listening? You matter to me; am I important to you? Are you really listening?


I love the LORD because he hears my voice
and my prayer for mercy.
Because he bends down to listen,
I will pray as long as I have breath! {Psalm 116:1-2}

At church we began a new series called Listen!

The takeaway message was this: God leans in to hear us, because he loves us. He descends to respond to our craving for nearness to him.

It isn’t the clarity of our speech, the grand persuasive nature of our phrases, our eloquence or intelligence, but our reaching up to Him that matters most.

He always bends to listen.

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Filed under Faith, life, Parenting

Living Like Lew #4 {A Garden of Trust}

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We’d lived in that house longer than six months.

It was beginning to feel like home.

The past couple of years we’d lived like nomads, moving from Phoenix to Taos, New Mexico to rural Washington and now, to this house in eastern Washington up a dirt road hill from Silver Lake.

I turned ten just about the time we moved in, smack in the middle of summer. I shyly met the neighbor boy, then another, then the girl one street over who would be my best friend and secret sharer during those awkward years called adolescence. Without school to keep us busy, we explored the woods beyond the cow pasture behind my house; we caught frogs in the marshy edges of the lake; we swam like like trout until we were pruned. Summer blended into fall and huge flocks of ducks and Canadian geese gathered on the lake to plan their southward routes. School began and time ticked along with the daily routine. Before long we’d passed months in the new house that was becoming home.

Spring, in all it’s melting, windy glory swept over our lakeside neighborhood and my dad, Lew, began digging a rectangle at the back of our yard.

A garden. A garden meant we’d be staying through until tomatoes ripened red and pumpkins plumped orangey and carrots grew big enough to pluck from the soil.

A garden meant putting down roots.

I joined him in the effort.

Now Lew does things old-school.

A child of the depression era, and a man who was used to hard-scrabble and a long days’ work, a father of seven. He worked his way through college, and then seminary with a growing family and his wife at home with the kids. So turning over a garden bed involved a strong back and a decent shovel. And a daughter who’d break up the dirt clods behind him.

I dutifully broke up the clods of dirt, picked out the weeds and piled the rocks around the edges of our rectangle.

“Let’s go get some seeds,” Dad suggested.

So, dirt covered, we drove to the hardware store and chose the seeds.

It was a hope-filled journey.

We perused the packets that shook like rattles and gleamed in technicolor the produce they promised. Being a white-bread girl, I only liked a few vegetables myself, but I was pleased to participate in growing things like zucchini and cucumbers, although I personally wouldn’t eat them. I chose the carrots and peas and corn. They rode home beside me in a paper sack, a rattling bundle of promise.

As the day began to wane into evening and the sky blue turned indigo to the east and fire-red in the west, and as the lake called silver just down the hill flamed gold, and the damp of the lake and the springtime earth clung to us and made our fingers cold, we tore open the packets and poured seeds into my small open palms.

Dad’s big hands would fumble with the seed and spill them, so he entrusted me with the seed-handling. With the garden rake he made straight rows across the width of the rectangle. A row for each variety of vegetable.

And I followed him, row by row and placed the seeds, as he instructed and at the depth the instructions told us to plant. Some were scattered and just dusted with the black soil, like the carrots. The corn we had to space farther apart. And the zucchini and pumpkins went into little mountains of dirt I made as I squatted near the cool earth. I looked a the hard pea seeds, more like little pebbles and dreamed of the freshly zipped pods and the plump green orbs I could eat right there in our lush garden.

We stuck the packets at the front-end of each row and held them down with a rock. Then I pulled the hose over and dad let a fine, cold mist spray over our rectangle of hope.

And I learned right there to love growing things.

I learned right there to taste the must of earth in the cool air of a spring night and feel the exhilaration of planting seeds of hope in the soil of trust.

I learned to watch and wait for the miraculous signs of life pushing through the dark, of holding that doubt and fear that asks, “What’s happening down there? Are the seeds ever going to sprout?” and breathing relief and smiling alone when the tiny flag of new growth appears where there was once nothing.

I learned right there that gardening and life and writing and love and everything else that matters so much to me that tears spring to my eyes when I think of them — they’re all about trust, and hope, and working until your back aches and the back of your throat is dry.

And the world of miracles exists in those tiny seeds that spring life from the earth, grow verdant and strong and bear food fit to eat – crunchy carrots, sweet peas, juicy corn and yes, even zucchinis.


Filed under Faith, life, Parenting