Learning to See, Learning to Trust

Daily Office Reflection for Friday, October 9, 2026
Psalms 16, 17, and 22; Sirach 1:1–10, 18–27; Acts 28:1–6; Luke 9:18–27

Sometimes I read a familiar word in the Sacred Writings and realize I am still learning what it means.

Wisdom. Trust. Faith.

I have heard these words since childhood. I have preached about them, studied them, and tried to live by them. Yet there are moments when something finally connects, and I wonder why it took me so long to understand.

I am learning to receive those moments with gratitude instead of being harsh with myself.

Thank you, Lord Jesus Christ, for helping me see.

Sirach begins by telling us that all wisdom comes from God. It connects wisdom with “the fear of the Lord,” an expression that needs some explanation for the modern reader. I understand it as approaching God with reverence, awe, and humility: recognizing that I do not have all the answers, that my choices matter, and that I need guidance.

Someone once described wisdom as “sanctified common sense.” I like that. It suggests practical judgment being shaped by God’s love. But even common sense needs examination. What seems obvious to me may be an assumption I have never questioned.

Wisdom helps me ask: What is true? What is loving? What am I missing?

Those questions have become part of my prayer:

Lord Jesus Christ,
teach me to see with compassion like you,
teach me to listen with wisdom,
teach me to discern what is true and loving,
and teach me to speak with love.

I am discovering how much I need that prayer in ordinary life.

There are times when my emotions begin to run ahead of me. A thought becomes a worry. A worry becomes a whole conversation in my head. Before long, I am responding inwardly to things that may not even have happened.

When I recognize this, I begin praying the Jesus Prayer. Often, peace and joy return. There is room to breathe, to listen, and to consider what my emotions are telling me without letting them make every decision.

The prayer is becoming a practice. I am learning to bring what I believe into how I respond.

Psalm 16 speaks of security in God. The psalmist asks for protection and finds joy in God’s presence. That has made me think again about faith and trust.

I have often felt that faith and trust are qualities rather than quantities. But I am coming to understand that they can be real and still be growing. Trust can be hesitant. Faith can carry questions.

Faith and trust are qualities of relationship, not quantities I must accumulate. They grow as I learn to turn toward God, even when I am afraid.

The more I bring my life into conversation with God, the more I learn that I can come honestly—with gratitude, confusion, disappointment, love, and hope. I do not have to arrange everything neatly before I pray.

Psalm 17 takes that honesty further. The psalmist asks for shelter while inviting God to examine his heart.

That is a searching prayer. When I feel hurt or misunderstood, I readily want God to see what someone else has done. Am I also willing to let God examine my response?

Have I understood the situation? Have I spoken fairly? Is my pain becoming an excuse to wound another person?

Beneath the shelter of God’s wings, I can ask for protection and remain open to correction. I can bring my hurt without hiding my heart.

Then Psalm 22 gives trust another voice:

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Jesus prayed these words from the cross. They remind me that anguish belongs in prayer too. Feeling abandoned does not make someone faithless. The cry itself is still addressed to God.

I am grateful that peace often returns when I pray. But on a day when peace comes slowly, I can continue calling on Jesus. I do not have to produce a calm feeling to make my prayer sincere.

Sometimes trust speaks with gratitude. Sometimes it asks for shelter. Sometimes it cries, “Where are you, God?”

All these voices can belong to a life of prayer.

In Acts, the people of Malta welcome Paul and the other survivors of the shipwreck. They build a fire for these cold, wet strangers. Before they know their stories, they offer warmth.

Then a snake fastens onto Paul’s hand, and they assume he must be a murderer receiving punishment. When he suffers no harm, they decide he is a god.

Their conclusions change dramatically, but both come from judging what they see before they understand it.

I recognize that tendency. How quickly I can turn an observation into a conclusion about someone’s character, motives, or relationship with God.

Wisdom asks me to slow down. Compassion invites me to offer warmth while I am still learning someone’s story.

In Luke, Peter identifies Jesus as the Messiah. Jesus then speaks of suffering, death, and resurrection, and calls his followers to take up their cross daily.

Peter has recognized who Jesus is, but he still has much to learn about Jesus’ way. So do I.

When I was a young preacher, I understood denying myself in ways that came dangerously close to denying my worth. Today, I am learning to understand it as surrendering my insistence on having my own way—allowing Jesus to shape my desires, judgments, and actions.

My humanity needs compassion, healing, and guidance. Following Jesus calls me to love with that whole humanity, even when love requires patience, sacrifice, an honest admission, or a clear boundary.

Taking up my cross daily reaches into ordinary moments: listening when I would rather interrupt, admitting that I may be wrong, keeping a commitment, or pausing before anger becomes a hurtful word.

These readings meet me where I live. They invite me to seek wisdom, practice trust, pray honestly, and keep learning the way of Jesus.

I am still learning. And I am thankful.

What familiar word of faith is becoming clearer to you? Where might a pause for prayer help you see or respond differently today?

Lord Jesus Christ, receive me as I am and keep teaching me. When my emotions race, help me pause in your presence. When I am afraid, help me turn toward you. When I am hurting, give me courage to pray honestly. Teach me to see with compassion like you, listen with wisdom, discern what is true and loving, and speak with love. Let this prayer take root in the choices I make today. Amen.

—The Curious Pilgrim