Personal Blogs

“We are more often betrayed by our weaknesses than by the malice of others.”

La Rochefoucauld

Living a Life Others Can Trust

Imagine if the person who knows you best—a spouse, a dear friend, or a family member—were asked to measure your trustworthiness on a scale from one to ten. What number do you think they would choose? And if that person were known for speaking plainly, without flattery or softening the truth, how would their honest answer settle in your spirit?

It’s not a comfortable thought. It’s a question that engenders growth to maturity.

In a world where confidence in others is fragile and easily lost, trust has become one of the rarest treasures. To be called trustworthy is not mere kindness—it is a declaration about the kind of person you are. Every deep relationship rests on this foundation, and when it crumbles, what often remains is ache, separation, and quiet grief. The psalmist understood the power of what we say when he prayed, “Set a guard over my mouth, Lord; keep watch over the door of my lips.” (Psalm 141:3) Words, especially those spoken in secrecy or in anger, can either protect or devastate a soul.

Across cultures, betrayal has many names, but the Japanese word uragiri carries haunting clarity. It means “to cut from behind.” The picture is striking; you walk forward, unguarded, because you believe the one behind you is keeping watch. Yet instead of protecting you, they wound you. This kind of harm shows up everywhere—in families, churches, friendships, and workplaces. It appears in whispered conversations, in twisted truths, in confidences exposed for the sake of power or attention.

Often, what hurts most is not only the betrayal itself, but the silence that surrounds it—the absence of any chance to explain or defend. There is a unique cruelty in being misrepresented when you are not present to speak. Psalm 41 gives words to that ache:

“My enemies speak with malice…
My visitor utters lies;
then goes out and spreads them…
They say, ‘He will never rise again.’” (Psalm 41:5–8)

These ancient sorrows feel remarkably close to home.

Still, betrayal is not the end of the story. Healing remains possible. Hope still stands.

One of the most powerful choices we can make is to become the very person on whom we long to rely. A person who treats another’s secrets as sacred ground. Someone whose integrity does not depend on being warned, “Don’t tell anyone.” Someone who chooses restraint over rumour, kindness over curiosity, faithfulness over attention.

There are people in my own past who never truly came to know me—not because I withdrew, but because trust had not yet been earned. And that is a quiet truth of wisdom: not every heart is safe to hold your story. We are not called to close ourselves off to love, but neither are we called to offer our deepest parts to those who would not protect them. Love requires both courage and discernment.

Trustworthiness is not weakness. It is strength—built through honesty, humility, and the discipline to guard what does not belong to us. Those who live this way earn more than admiration from others; they earn peace within themselves. They rest without secrets. They speak without double meaning. They love without fear of being false because betrayal is not in their nature.

So, if that question unsettles you—What number would they give me? —do not turn away from the discomfort. Let it refine you, not shame you. Let it draw you deeper into grace, into growth, and into the steady shaping of a trustworthy life less you become lonely and without companions.

Because a life built on trust is gentler. It is truer. And it looks a great deal like Christ.

All verses from the BSB Bible.

Image by Copilot

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Memories: Look at Me

My father closed his eyes when I was ten years old. Memories of him are like distant candles, too far to emit significant light.  I have one picture of us when I was seven. He has a Mediterranean look although his grandfather was from Donegal. Many agree that he looked like the actor, Antony Quinn, rugged with compassionate eyes. He is dressed in white shirt and black trousers. He appears dignified.

His business was successful which allowed us to live in a nice building in the shipyard town of Govan. His proudest possession was not the home, but the view from our third storey. When visitors came, he would point over to Hills Trust Primary School and tell them it was the school John Mclean (1879-1923) taught in. Although McLean was a half century out of the public eye, ‘Mother Glasgow’s succour is perpetual’ and everyone remembered him as the political activist who was dismissed by the Govan School Board for ‘Using language likely to cause a breach of the peace.’

 Mclean taught evening classes in Marxism and political economics. Dad shared his views, and he would put me on his shoulders and march round the house singing John McLean’s March; a song that celebrated Mclean’s release from prison.

Hey Mac did ya see him as he came doon the Gorgie
Away o'er the Lammerlaw and north o' the Tay
Yon man is coming now the whole toon is turnin' oot
We're all sure he'll win back tae Glasgow today.

 I never understood the foreign sounding words, but I enjoyed the bonding as he marched round the living room ignoring the precarious position of ornaments and photos as they defied gravity.

Books were his pleasure: Twain, Dickens, and The Untouchables by Eliot Ness. I think it was the sense of justice and injustice explored by these writers that appealed to him. Bedtime stories were memorable as I would be privy to abridged versions of Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, and Huckleberry Finn. They were related with incredible feats of memory and accent skills, enhanced by his rhythmic wheeze that was sustained from a childhood bronchial condition.

He always had time for the lonely. I recall an ex-employee regularly visiting us. Jimmy Hooper was his name. I guess he was young, but his long brown coat, working boots and seven o’clock shadow aged him. Jimmy stopped working for my father when he was admitted to a mental institution with schizophrenia. He had a severe stutter, and my father, with his hands clasped like a priest would, patiently listen to Jimmy, as he lost all self-respect when rhythmically moving his head to and fro like a Rabbi reading the Mishnah in an effort to blurt out a simple sentence. It was stressful for all in his company.

In ‘66 Dad was rushed into hospital with respiratory failure. My last image was a pale looking man gasping for life.

A few years ago, I was at the Edinburgh Festival; a BBC live recording. The folk group, Tonight at Noon performed John MacLean’s March. My eyes filled with pleasing tears. When I related this memory to Kanoko, a Japanese friend, she put both hands to her mouth and uttered ‘natsukashii’. In this context, she was using a word for a positive nostalgia; a fleeting, but sweet memory, initiated by music.

Nostalgia is a vogue word that’s obscured by abuse, misuse, and overuse in society. Like a last-minute kedgeree, the various nuances of memory are thrown into one pot and labelled ‘nostalgia’ in our English language.  But memory is never that simple, the complexity of images and films drawn up in our private vaults hidden away from human scrutiny, reveal a colourful array of thoughts and meanings that change with the transfer of time and space and present themselves in colourful assemblages of meaning, reminding us we are unique and individual.

natsukashii: evoking sweet memories from the past.

Writing:  © 2024 Jim McCrory