Amanda believes our house is haunted.

Mostly, this means that I often wake up in the middle of the night to the pitter-patter of little feet coming into my bedroom, as she climbs into my bed, eyes wide and little hand clutching a teddy bear.  Amanda curls up beside me(fortunatly, I have a big, antique bed) next to the wall, and quickly falls asleep again.  Simply knowing that I’m right next to her, that she’s snuggled safely between the wall and the me, eases her mind from the ghosts. I am there.  She is secure in the knowledge that nothing, imaginary or real, man or spirit, can harm her while I’m there.

This trust amazes me.  There is no doubt in her eight-year-old mind that her mommy-sister can take on anything, no matter what, and defeat it in an instant. It has not occurred to her yet that there might be a fight I can’t win, an enemy I cannot declare victory over.  The idea would be almost heresy to her(I know, because I suggested it).

I sometimes wish I could have retained that trust.  In parents, in leaders, in friends, in God.  Instead I assume, in my adultish wisdom, always the worst–that instead of defeating the enemy, I will be handed over at the first moment possible.  Instead of walking off the cliff and knowing I can fly, I stay back, glancing fearfully at the edge, wandering close and then running away.

Trust…I could use some more of it…