Song of Quiet Trust
Katelyn Siggelkow is a full-time lover of neighbours, who settled into Saskatoon’s Westside five years ago to begin a Servant Partners site in this low-income neighbourhood. She is currently on a sabbatical and is enjoying a new routine of enjoying slow coffees, writing, practicing Spanish, and getting super fit as she prepares for the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage. She has enjoyed the tangible parallels between Lent and sabbatical this month, as she practices hallowing out and letting go in the hopes of finding God deep within.
I am writing during a Sabbatical pause from work and ministry,
And this is a dangerous place.
I’ve been thinking and reflecting and longing and feeling a LOT lately. As a result, I was on the verge of unleashing some serious word vomit on you. I have pages of scattered notes of stories from sabbatical: anecdotes of my cravings in the Lenten season, lessons on letting go, poems on hallowing, plans for pilgrimage. Yet, as I was opening up these pages to make sense of them today, I was stopped in my tracks by this little nugget of a Psalm that begged for my attention.
Translators have titled it a “Song of Quiet Trust”. And, it’s so quiet that I must have skimmed right past it other times. But in this season of Lent, Psalm 131 feels like a valuable place to huddle. In the spirit of decluttering and making space, I will spare you all my thoughts and invite you instead to sit in these words with me.
Below you’ll see that I’ve re-written the Psalm into my own “Song of Quiet Trust” (insert halo emoji). In this meditation, you’ll catch hints of my current grappling, but more than this I invite you to use this space to echo your own words of relentless craving and reluctant trust back to God.
Psalm 131
Song of Quiet Trust
A Song of Ascents. Of David.
1 O Lord, my heart is not lifted up;
my eyes are not raised too high;
I do not occupy myself with things
too great and too marvelous for me.
2 But I have calmed and quieted my soul,
like a weaned child with its mother;
my soul is like the weaned child that is with me.
3 O Israel, hope in the Lord
from this time on and forevermore.
It strikes me that this quiet place of trust, in the arms of Mother God, is a necessary foundation from which to embark on the Lenten invitation of emptying and letting go. I love that the Psalmist, David, is writing as a weaned child, free and able to roam and seek nourishment elsewhere, but opting into some tender cuddles with Creator.
Disconnected from God as source and comfort, our emptying efforts only lead us to seek nourishment elsewhere: in accolades, acceptance, recognition, and belonging. In my rendition, my current place of trust feels more like an umbilical cord necessary for nourishment. Regardless of how comfortable or desperate the connection, may the simplicity of the Lenten season tether us close to our Creator
Maybe in this space, you could take some time to craft your own “Psalm of Quiet Trust.” You can use this loose guide to craft three stanzas, and read my example below.
What are the issues that can get you all riled up—your favourite soapboxes? What could it look like to just not concern yourself too much with that right now?
When is a recent time when you have felt satisfied and content? Picture yourself lingering here. Where is God in this space? What is your relationship to God here?
Who do you want to invite into this nourishing place with you? What do you hope will happen for you all here?
Attempting Quiet Trust - A Psalm
1I roll my eyes again at talks on dogma and doctrine and what we will permit and prioritize. I duck out of these conversations, as if I could take on the work of our Redeemer. I do not judge what is right or wrong. Well, I have my biases, but I try not to act on them! I try to live a simple obedience of loving God and neighbour, rooted in the generous shadow of grace.
2 I tuck in here, in this quiet moment, taking advantage of my still-groggy mind before it begins to wander and make meaning of everything. I tune in to my cravings, not dismissing them but revering them as a nourishing cord connecting me to God. Here is my best attempt at reorienting my home toward satisfaction.
3Oh family. Brothers and sisters and Saskatoon churches. Could we just settle in and crave God together? Maybe go on a really long walk and not pack any snacks. And just as we’re getting sweaty, tired, and hangry, could we look into the mirror of each other and glimpse the familiar ache? Could we be honest about our longings and not even dare to whisper about solutions? Here, maybe here, is our unity. In ache, in longing, in hope.
I hope.
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And this is a dangerous place.
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