Trust.


Words that settle like the grace of a sparkling waterfall when they are meant:

“I trust you.”

There are few statements that will be more prized than these in the depth of any human heart. Beyond all wants and cares, we each simply desire fully to be comfortably knowing love enough to trust and be trusted, so that we may not be walking alone.

They carry so much. On their back are the words, “Beyond all my fears.” In their arms, “Beyond what you don’t know.” Upon their shoulders, “Beyond what you do know.” Painted in their eyes, “I’ll listen and believe you will honor me, always.” Held in their gentle fingers, “I’ll never doubt that your words and actions are in love.” The three small words together mean paragraphs of glances, and breaths, and emotions, and becomings, and failings, and growth, and hope.

They are words when spoken in truth, that can paint the most beautiful of murals upon the face of a shattered and falling city building wall. They turn brokenness into beauty. But as with any mural, trust cannot go without attending to. Each and every day, it must be maintained, with soft brush strokes that remove the filth from the night before, sharing with the canvas that the artist is ever present. It must be checked regularly, treated as prized, and must be valued for its fullness. Each and every piece must be maintained as though it is the greatest work the artist has ever place their feeble hands upon. If not maintained, it will wane. But it’s too precious for that, right? It must be protected and adored. Isn’t it beautiful? Look at how the sun shines upon it.

Slam.
Crack.
Crumble.

The weight of a sledgehammer. For but a moment, someone lost composure, and fell to the frustration within. The pieces fall quickly, and in one swift move, the picture as it once was, lays cracked upon the ground, as the world continues to bustle by without a thought.

Tears fill his eyes as he slowly sets down the heavy hammer, breathing deeply. His gaze leads him to shatter at his core as he watches his hand let go of the thick wooden handle. There he kneels before one of the most prized possession of each of his days. The sun still shines upon the painting of red, orange, green, and blue. But now, what was once whole, is pieces.

His mind begins to race. “Those words. Those words! Had they been shattered by the hands of someone else, I’d have someone else to blame. I could walk away. I could break and fall, and someone else could repaint.” He pauses. “But this isn’t them. This was me, the artist that created the beauty and the chaos. What I held so deeply, can no longer show its beauty.”

The grieving begins, and the he is left with a choice. “Do those words mean to me the colors and forms I once painted, or will I leave them now as they are?  Can I bear to see shattered what once brought light to my life?”

But even as it’s broken, he cannot forget the wholeness. This was once beauty, and it’s depth was thick. Can he leave it? It’ll take so long to rebuild. But maybe if he takes the time, the words won’t look the same, but instead will be made new, with even more beauty. How much more precious and valued they can be. He won’t have the energy to do it all now, but there’s always hope to be seen, if but by one brush stroke at a time.

Trust: (n) assured reliance on the character, ability, strength, or truth of someone or something.

Once it is painted, it will never not be prized. In this world of broken hearts, each only wants to believe it’s true. If the mural is painted, please, sit and adore. Pay close attention to detail, and adore it beautifully; never let it scar. Let the sun shine upon it, and the world smile with you. But if you choose one day to break it, and find then that it’s a mistake, fear not, for you once painted it, and if you love enough, the time to fix it, you’ll take.

It’s about what is painted by love; not about you.

…because love wins.

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