“Cathay, do you trust me?” asks the Lord.

“No, not today,” I respond.  “Today I’m afraid.”  I am reminded of my hesitation when driving along a road that goes up a hill and until you get to the top you cannot see what is on the other side. To me it’s a dreadful feeling.  Never quite sure I won’t see a car coming at me in my lane, or some blockage in the road, or maybe the road will just not be there.  You don’t know until you’re right at the top. Blind spots in the road do not set well with me.

I feel like that’s where I’m at now. In a blind spot.

“You don’t need to trust the road,” he says.  “I ask rather that you trust me.  Have we walked together so long and you still do not know I have your back? I hold your hand. I walk with you and will protect you from harm.  That’s what I ask you to trust; not the road you’re on.”

“I wasn’t seeing that, Lord. My eyes had turned from you to the journey itself.”  I take a deep breath. I close my eyes. I step off the road and turn my attention to my Lord.  Walking together without regard to where we’re going, why I’m going there or what lays ahead for me.  Just walking. Just talking. Just being.

“Yes, I trust you, Lord.  Fully. Totally. You have proven yourself to me time and time again.  I trust you and know that wherever we walk, you’ve got me. It’s safe. And it is good.”

“That’s all I ask today, my daughter. That’s all I’m asking of you today.”