“Father, I Trust You.”

It has its pros and cons, but one of the things I like about me thing about me is that I am not title-discriminative. Meaning, I don’t really care what your professional role is in life. While I respect it, believing that I should interact with you in any other way than I would interact with someone I love and care for is senseless. At least it is in my eyes.

When elements like body language, social events, casual interactions, public or professional environments, and face-to-face contact, are removed your life, you come to fully rely on whether or not your words can make an impact.

If you can’t speak for yourself, if you can’t find a way to connect with people, you are the one who suffers. You are the one who misses out. You depend on your words to seek the help that you need. You depend on your words to open the doors to the resources you need. You count on your words to do everything a “normal” person can’t effectively communicate without.

A lot of people who become socially isolated need to be told that. They need to be reminded that they still have the power to connect. They need to be reminded that they don’t have to live up to everybody else’s expectations of the appropriate way to advocate for themselves. Because you can only go so long before being forced to surrender to social isolation or fight for yourself.

So, Professor, Doctor, Congressman, CEO, Reverend, those titles don’t really mean much to me except to expect intelligent, interesting, and challenging conversation. A few of my friends don’t know it, but they’re unofficially-ordained preachers. One wrote today about how he/she leans on this phrase:

Father, I trust you.

After telling him that I don’t lean on that line much anymore because the lie became exhausting, I felt like an asshole. I pondered why I couldn’t just hit “like” the same as everyone else.

Was I just projecting? Acting out? I mean, it’s possible. My mind is in the dumps. I don’t think I was, though. I like to think of it as indirectly teaching (or preaching).

Christians, I’m glad you trust Him, but tell me about the times you told Him you trusted Him and you were lying. Tell me what it was that broke you. Tell me how you came about meaning it the next time. Tell me what sold you, what held you together, tell me what makes you believe that line.

The Bible doesn’t tell Christians so much to around the world shouting His words as it does reiterate the fact that we should live them. Tell me the story behind how you live yours. What makes you want to repeat that affirmation?

Father, I trust you.

Why? Not who, but what is your source? Make me believe too. Or else, greater is He that is in who?

Grace Durbin © 2017
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