When we are left behind, we cannot leave ourselves behind

In the chill of this morning I drove to church and sat among people whom I consider to be dear and good friends—people whose lives and children I admire, people who make me laugh.  I had been thinking, quietly, about the people who walk away from our lives, who no longer need what we have offered, who have found themselves moving past us toward something bigger, more enticing.  I had been thinking, too, about the work I do for others, and how it can sometimes leave me feeling small, and I was sitting in the pews, my thoughts moving in and out, when Victor Wilson, our minister, began his sermon.

There, within his narrative about trust, were words I'd written years ago for a story in Science and Spirit magazine. He'd mentioned, months ago, that he had found the piece, but I had no firm recollection of it, and so was surprised to sit within this echo of myself—the young me talking to the now me, saying these words:

It is so primal, this thing called trust.  So basic to our survival.  Without trust could we attach to one another, could we love?  Could we forge societies and build institutions?  Speak and believe that we’ve been heard?  Would we set up housekeeping?  Trade one thing for another?  Lie in another person’s arms?  Dare to procreate?  Freely slip away to conjecture, to be curious, to dream? We’d be at war every day of our lives if we didn’t trust.  We’d be anxious, jumpy people.   We’d be on-guard, fenced-in solitaires — withered souls with narrowed eyes.

I don't want to live, I realized again today, without trust.  I don't want the behavior of others to take it from me.  I want, still, to believe in what is good, and I will, still, pursue that good, and if going forward some find me just a bit more guarded, a bit less eager to lavishly help, all it means is that I'm waiting for them to earn my trust.