A Journey of Trust

I recently had the blessing of being able to spend two weeks in Europe with friends on a pilgrimage, encountering the Lord through the footsteps of the saints.  Much of the travel involved driving, which meant we had the gift of taking in enrapturing beauty: mountains that made you want to weep at their majesty, and flowers—never before had flowers seemed to hold so much enchantment and meaning.  Soaking in the scenery from the car window, I found myself ridiculously overwhelmed by field after field of sunflowers that, with their stunning vibrancy and cheer, appeared to tilt their heads up to the sun as if perfectly aware of whose glory they were meant to be a reflection of.  

There was a longing in my heart to simply sit and take in the wonder of all it was.  Little did I know that the Lord lovingly held that unspoken desire of my heart and had plans to answer it. 

Part of the journey included stopping in Lisieux, France—the home of St. Thérèse.  Being in this quaint, peaceful town, so rich with the gentle presence of the Lord, was a surreal experience for me–someone who has turned to Therese, whom I’ve adopted as my “big sister in Heaven,” over and over again.  

Knowing Thérèse, I shouldn’t have been surprised that in my time there, she led me away from herself and pointed me towards Christ.  Spending time in her childhood home, praying at her tomb and in the picturesque outdoors of Lisieux allowed me not only to walk alongside her unique person but ultimately experience her love for Christ, which, as I entered into prayer in each of these places, became not simply her example, but the cry of my own heart.  I felt so strongly his personal care for me and an awareness of my own growing desire to love Him with renewed strength and surrender.  It was a foreshadowing that the rest of the trip was to be an invitation into childlike surrender and dependency of the Father, just like Thérèse preached and, more importantly, practiced.  

Traveling overseas would seem the logical place if any to need to fret and have things nailed down to the last detail.  But the Lord graced me with a surprising lack of needing to know:  Things happened in stride, and I took them with a lightheartedness that only can come from Him.  Throughout the multitude of decisions to be made, crazy lack of sleep, and wrong turns, I was incredibly struck by my carefree disposition. It was simply an experience of his grace, which was allowing me to live out Jesus’ exhortation to live like the birds of the air and lilies of the field—confident that He would take care of every need (Matthew 6:26-32). 

This movement of trust was taken a step further, when, while sitting on the floor of the House of Loreto (believed to contain walls from the house of the Holy Family in Nazareth—where Mary gave her yes to the Incarnation and some say Jesus grew up) an overwhelming desire for a renewed surrender swept into my heart.  I found Christ tenderly highlighting places I had been holding onto in my heart, places He had patiently been waiting for me to give over to Him so He could reveal the tremendous freedom and life He not only could give, but truly desired to fill me with.  Unlike my previous, often half-hearted attempts at surrender, this prompting of the Lord was rooted in trust, a willingness to let go of all I had been trying to control and instead live out of the confidence that the Lord held in his arms all of the plans for my life. 

In this space, undeniably graced with the Holy Spirit, I felt such peace recognizing that Mary’s heart, one that had faced all of the joys and sorrows of life on earth, also had been presented with the choice of surrender. With her comforting presence surrounding me, I gave my simple and humble fiat to the Lord, in the very place where she likely gave the Fiat that changed everything.  In the stillness and intimacy of this holy space there was no audible praise let out, but I like to imagine Heaven let out a raucous cheer.  

And then, after that, the sunflowers happened. 

While driving through the Italian countryside, there reached a point when a u-turn became necessary, which found us gloriously, unmistakably next to a sunflower field.  My instant desire was to get out of the car and, if only for a moment, go take in the beauty. 

Trampling through the worn dirt pathway to get to the spot, I felt a childlike joy, so often unattended to and unnoticed, rise up in my heart.  Feeding this joy in that moment led me face-to-face with the sunflowers.  

And, oh, what unspeakable delight.  Up close, they were but a small testimony, a window into the infinite beauty of our Beloved; their sheer existence could only be meant to draw our hearts to their maker.  

Perhaps the sunflowers were the Lord’s gift to me in my surrender.  He had seen the longing of my heart, however insignificant it may have seemed, and taken great joy in answering it, revealing through that little moment that there is not a desire in my heart that goes unseen. If He takes such care with the smallest desires, how much more will He delight also to care for and provide in the bigger moments.  The tenderness of his Fatherly love for me and my desires filled my heart with such gratitude and exhilaration.  I moved into a posture of expectancy for what the Lord was going to do next, not placing any limits on what that might be. 

Getting back into the car after this encounter with such majesty, I carried a tangible joy and lightness in my spirit—a childlike nature that the Father must have been overflowing with delight in.  “Lord, what else should I ask for?” became the expectant cry of my heart.  

And what the Lord did next was to gently school me in trust. 

The following day I found myself wandering through the hilly streets of Assisi, looking for an Adoration chapel. Though I had been given meticulous directions to the chapel, I had promptly forgotten them.  After walking in circles, and really starting to feel the toll of the hilly streets, a frustration, born out of a heartfelt desire to be with Jesus present in the Eucharist, bubbled up inside of me. It turned into an honest prayer: “Don’t you want me to spend time with You?”  

This wasn’t simply a cry of frustration or last attempt to gain something I wanted.  Instead, it was a prayer of confidence that God would indeed hear my heartfelt plea. And low and behold, just a short bit of wandering later, I turned down a street which seemed to hold no promise, and there stood the coveted chapel door—with the treasure of all treasures behind it. 

The rest of that day turned out to be a series of opportunities to simply trust that the Lord would fulfill my needs.  From confidently asking Him to find me a bathroom (surprisingly difficult in Italy) then stumbling upon one that I had not previously noticed, to having my phone’s meager one-percent charge not die until after I had pulled up the directions I desperately needed—He kept showing up in concrete ways.  

Or perhaps more accurately, because I was making space for Him to be part of every moment, I was much more aware of his constant presence and desire for me to continually run to Him with every need and longing, no matter how seemingly insignificant.  

That day after the sunflower field was not at all the day I had expected or perhaps even wanted; yet it was better, and left me reveling in his goodness and trustworthiness.  

My journey was but a small piece of our call to live in complete trust. How little we ask, yet how much He wants to give.  He is waiting with abundant patience, as the Prodigal Son’s Father did, for us to realize He holds all we could ever need, and desires to be part of each precious moment of our lives. He comes through for us, always.  He loves our boldness and confidence when we place our needs at his feet.  He is a God, a Father, who delights in the trust of his children.  

It didn’t strike me until much later, weeks after I got home actually, that my trip had been filled with a childlike trust in the Father that was reminiscent of the Little Way Thérèse, the Saint many associate with gifts of roses, proclaims.  Her love and use of flowers in her spirituality was not lost on me.  And while, yes, I’d found the Lord’s gift in sunflowers not roses, perhaps this was her reminder that “If every tiny flower wanted to be a rose, spring would lose its loveliness” (Martin 2). 

Sunflowers seem to me like they were created to give back glory to God. That sounds like quite a beautiful life, and well, if He’s called me to be a sunflower, continually gazing on his beauty in humble, joyful, and childlike obedience, may I want nothing else.  

The lockscreen on my phone right now is of a picture of that same sunflower field we stumbled upon.  It’s a reminder of his glory in creation, his joy at answering my deepest desires, and a call to turn my face towards Him with childlike foolishness and trust because, when you’ve encountered his heart and love for you, there’s no other response.  

Works Cited 

Thérèse, and John Beevers. The Autobiography of St. Thérèse of Lisieux: The Story of a Soul. 1957. Image Books, 2001.