Handle with Care: Lessons in Trust, Treasures, and the Things We Break

This week, my single mom life was a whirlwind of exhaustion, and not just because of the heatwave.

On one side of town, my youngest and I have juggled summer school and church attendance along with three doctor appointments, two social events, and a slumber party—all sprinkled in with the other aspects of our regular life. But on the other side of town, we’re house-sitting for a friend, so we’re feeding and cuddling pets, watering and weeding gardens and flowerbeds, caring for and keeping up with the home we’re being trusted to guard.

From writing to showing grace to parenting in chaos as an already overwhelmed mom, it’s funny how the heat made it all seem harder somehow. Driving back and forth across town in a car with no A/C for appointments is a far cry from soaking in my friend’s fabulous jetted bathtub at the end of a rough day...and hoping my old clunker of a car would start and stop as desired in no way compared to the terrifying thrill of sitting in the driver’s seat of my friend’s roaring Maserati.

But we made allowances to minimize the dangerous symptoms of my heat intolerance. We finished summer school. We made it to all the appointments. We went to a concert, showed up at a movie night, and hosted my oldest daughter (who stayed behind to finish moving back in) for a sleepover. We teamed up to conquer to-do lists that kept growing. We made space for rest, and took time to appreciate unexpected blessings.

Now, the week is done. And here I am on a quiet Sunday afternoon, caught somewhere between grit and gratitude, trying to process the sheer amount of life haphazardly crammed into these last seven days.

And I can’t help noticing a theme that showed up again and again this week—sometimes in a quiet realization but other times with the sting of a sudden slap.

Trust. Honoring trust. Trusting others with what matters. And the generational lessons learned when we set our hearts on growing through chaos rather than griping along the way.

It started with the key to a car that’s worth more than the trailer park I grew up in.

When my friend left town, she handed me the keys to her life like it was no big deal. To her, they’re slips of metal cut to fit the tumblers on various locks—but to me, they’re trust. They’re full and unencumbered access to my friend’s home. Her belongings. Her geriatric dogs. Her family heirlooms. And her cars.

She handed them over with no hesitation, along with a personal security code for the alarm and a printed page of household tips and instructions. When and how much to feed the dogs. Where to find the Swiffer. Which mailbox to check. And then… “Please start the cars and feel free to drive at least once. Especially the Maserati.”

Uh, what? Never once have I even wanted to start that thing. Ride in it? Sure. But start it? Drive it? Potentially ding it, dent it, or scratch it? Absolutely not. 

Everyone who knows about it has teased me for resisting the temptation to drive that car (and believe me, I am tempted). I have the key. I have permission. My friend is on the other side of the globe. I could hop in that thing and joyride it all over the place. But I won’t, because trust isn’t about what you can get away with, it’s about what you do when no one’s looking.

Honestly, I put it off for longer than I should have. And I did finally start it, but I still refuse to pull it out of the garage. Not because I can’t, but because I understand the gift of being trusted with something so rare.

Still, all the teasing eventually led to an unexpectedly deep conversation with my oldest daughter about dependability, modeling responsibility, and how sometimes, the reason people give you access to beautiful things is because they know you won’t take advantage.

I don’t choose my friends based on their net worth, their homes, or the cars parked in their garages. Those things don’t impress me just by being, but growing up in poverty and living with limited means has taught me to notice value—not only in terms of cost, but in the effort and sacrifice something valuable represents.

For me, being careful is more than a personality trait seeded by nature and rooted in trauma. It’s part of who I am. It’s a value I live by, and I think that’s part of why the car left me a little breathless. Maybe that’s part of why she trusted me with it, too. Not because I have experience with luxury, but because I don’t. And she knows I’ll treat it like it matters. Because to me, it does.

Trust works the same way. Whether it’s a Maserati or the shape of someone’s heart, emotional and relational trust are just as delicate—and I’ve spent enough time in fragile spaces to understand how easily something precious can be broken, which is part of why I’m so determined to teach my daughters how to handle value gently and wisely. Not just things, but people, too.

Because the truth is, when we’re trusted with something meaningful, the way we care for it says a lot about who we are. And sometimes the most sacred lessons are the ones that come when something breaks…and we have to choose how to respond.

This week, my youngest daughter accidentally broke not one but two sentimental heirlooms belonging to someone we both love deeply. The first shattered before a concert on Sunday, and the second during a movie night on Thursday. Both were deeply personal, irreplaceable gifts—but in those moments, grace showed up.

Anger and even heartbreak would have been perfectly understandable, but what we got was patient compassion. Mercy. And the kind of love that absorbs the pain and still redefines the moment. Watching my daughter learning responsibility—learning grace—was one of the most tender moments of my week. She’s clumsy and deeply sensitive, but she’s learning. And so am I.

*****

So I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be trusted. Not just with objects or animals or luxury cars, but with people. With memories. With truth. Because here’s the thing: we're all being trusted with something.

Maybe it's someone’s story. Maybe it’s their secrets or prized possessions. Maybe it’s something fragile you didn’t mean to drop. Maybe it's your own healing or emotional growth. And yes, sometimes we break things. Sometimes we get it wrong. But grace exists. Restoration is possible. And the older I get, the more I realize the value isn’t in the thing itself, but in being trusted to hold that value gently—in whatever form it comes.

I'm also learning that trusting others is just as important as being trustworthy myself. That’s never been easy for me...except when I'm writing. Every time I open my heart through a story, whether it’s these reflections from real life or fiction shaped by the scars I carry, I’m choosing to trust you, too.

Progress on STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM has been slower this week (chaos will do that), but I'm so proud of this book. It’s the next part of the Freedom Series, the next step in Christine's journey into life after domestic abuse. It's the part where she begins to wrestle with trust, too. And while it won’t be released until March, I’m already so excited for you to see it—because sharing these stories, both real and imagined, is how I hold space for both pain and possibility.

Until then, I’ll be here. Writing. Growing. Learning to trust. And praying you always...