What was it I heard recently? Was it on a podcast? NPR? I suspect the latter, but I can’t remember who was being interviewed, or even the topic. I’m not even sure what day I heard it. What I do remember, vaguely, is that a man was being interviewed and he talked about expecting the positive from people. He said that he has trust in people and that for the most part, it works out. When his trust is misplaced, he regards that as the tax he pays on the luxury of having a trustful outlook on the world. (Again, I am paraphrasing madly and perhaps erroneously here. If anyone heard this interview, or something resembling it, please chime in and let me know!)

It struck me how liberating living in trust is. To expect that people tend to treat others well. That if you ask for help, you’ll receive it. It even made sense that, on occasion, you’d have to be “taxed” on that. And the toll of living otherwise struck me as well. To live in a fearful, guarded way, expecting others to take advantage, to refuse to help, to treat you badly. I suspect I fall somewhere in-between the two on that continuum, leaning toward trustful, but certainly not fully there.

These ideas lingered with me — albeit vaguely.

Then, early on Monday morning, I was at the gas pump, filling up, en route to the grocery store to buy ingredients for a family brunch. I finished fueling, got back in the car and turned the key.

Nothing.

I laughed and shook my head. Really?

I turned the key again.

Nothing.

I called Triple A and was put on hold. With the phone on speaker, I started to push the car away from the pump toward a parking spot. Which worked great. Until it didn’t.

I looked around. There was a man at the gas pump adjacent to me, just finishing up.

“Excuse me, would you mind helping me push my car over there?” I asked him, pointing to my destination.

“No problem,” he replied. “Do you need a jump?”

“Well, I’ve called Triple A, so I should be okay…” my voice trailed away doubtfully as the droning hold music continued to issue from within the car.

“If I have my jumper cables I’ll be happy to help you out,” he said.

“That would be great,” I said.

A few minutes later I had hung up on Triple A, and we had moved the car into the designated spot. He pulled up next to me, then reached into his back seat and took out a pristine pair of jumper cables. Simultaneously, the opposite back door opened and his son stepped out.

“Thank you so much!” I said to both of them, “I’m so sorry to take up part of your day.”

“No worries! We’ve got the whole day,” the man replied, smiling.

The boy walked to the front of the car. Immediately, his father began explaining.

“So, the yellow is the positive and the black is negative.” He handed the other end of the cables to me. “Make sure to hold those apart,” he said over his shoulder.

Then he went on explaining to his son. Step by step. “This is the battery….” ” You attach these here…”

It was such a natural teaching moment in so many ways. Superficially, he was teaching his son how to jump a stalled car. But more importantly, he was also teaching him to take the time to help others. To be kind. To be helpful. To foster trust.

I thought back to that interview and the idea of regarding people and the world through a lens of trust.

Five minutes later, my car started on the first key turn. We disengaged the cables and I set out to the auto parts store. When I left, after effusive thanks, the man and his son still had their heads bent close together, continuing to explore their car’s engine.

I pulled out of the parking lot, my breakfast plans derailed, my wallet soon to be lighter, with a big smile on my face and a light heart. And I felt myself move along that hypothetical continuum, a bit more toward the trusting side.

And it felt really good.

It’s early morning on the last Tuesday before school gets out for the summer. I’m lying in bed, unsure what woke me. Was it looming last day worries and deadlines? The vague throb of a troublesome tooth breaking through its ibuprofen buffer? Perhaps it was the owls again.

Our home is surrounded by woods, and the barred owls have been especially active recently. We both thrill to hear their song off and on throughout night. Tonight they’ve woken us again and again with their soft calls.

Once, earlier, wanting to share the moment, I’d whispered to Kurt, “Did you hear that?”.

“Yes,” he’d answered softly, and I knew we were both listening together.

Now, hours later, I listen again carefully, hopefully.

Finally, I hear the call. Not the iconic who-cooks-for-you, but a long warbling call.

Whoot.

I hear Kurt’s breathing change as he moves from sleep to listening again. We’re quiet together, waiting for the next call.

Sometimes it’s distant. Sometimes it’s closer. Usually there are only a few calls and then dark silence. I always imagine mighty wing strokes and flight.

Eventually, the owl calls one more time.

Whoot.

For long minutes afterward, I listen. Tuned to the dark.

Kurt’s breathing eases back into sleep.

I’m still wakeful. My mind wanders. My ears strain for the next call.

Later I hear it, faint and far, far away, on the edges of sleep and sound.

And then, as if comforted somehow, I drift back into sleep.