It’s a warm spring day. Sunlight filters through the tinted glass windows of my truck onto my face as I stare through the windshield, navigating a sea of traffic. In the seat behind me, my four-year-old is immersed in the world outside the truck. He sits and silently watches the scenery fly by. His characteristical porcelain cheeks are now rosy from the warm rays and his bright blue eyes flit back and forth along with the changing landscape. It’s a rare quiet moment in the bustle of our daily life. Suddenly the quiet is broken by a command from my son, “Langston’s window, go down please!” As he finishes the line, the window begins to lower, warm air rushes in and he smiles.
I’m about six years old. It’s a dark night in central Louisiana. My Dad has spent the last hour warning me and my little brother about the armies of alligators waiting in the darkness to eat us if we venture outside of our home. Once we are fully convinced there is no way we will ever go outside at night again, my Dad decides Mom needs her purse out of the car, parked in the driveway. Of course, we immediately object. “Trust me,” he says trying not to smile, “you’ll be fine, just cluck like a chicken and the alligators will be confused and leave you alone.”
Trust is an amazing thing. On a whim a few weeks ago I decided to convince my son the windows in our truck are voice activated. My Dad convinced his sons that clucking like a chicken will keep you safe from alligators that stalk Louisiana suburbs. Children have no life experience to jade them. They haven’t been lied to, deceived, hurt or betrayed enough to corrupt their young hearts. Sometimes I wish I was more like that. I wish I could trust enough to believe even the most ridiculous things just because someone I love said them. I wish I could trust there is a father in heaven who loves me and only wants the best for me, even though my 33-year-old heart has been corrupted.
Trust is beautiful, and so off I go into the darkness. Clucking the entire way.
If you wake me each morning with the sound of your loving voice,
I’ll go to sleep each night trusting in you.
Point out the road I must travel;
I’m all ears, all eyes before you