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The Trustworthy Life

 If your closest companion, your mate, a long-time friend, or a  family member were asked to rate your trustworthiness on a scale of one to ten, what score might they give you? And if they were someone known for their honesty, not one to flatter or withhold truth out of politeness, how might their answer sit with you?

It’s a sobering thought, but also a sacred one.

We live in a world where trust is a rare and precious currency. To be counted trustworthy is not a sentimental compliment, but a statement of character. Trust is the foundation of all meaningful relationships, and when it is broken, the cost is heartbreak, silence, and distance. As the Psalmist prayed in humility and self-awareness: "Set a guard, O Lord, over my mouth; keep watch at the door of my lips." (Psalm 141:3) Our words, especially when spoken in confidence or anger, can shape or shatter someone's view of the world—and of us.

Among the many words for betrayal in the languages of the world, the Japanese Uragiri stands out. It literally means “cutting from behind.” What an image. You trust someone enough to walk ahead, to expose your back, believing they’ll guard it, not wound it. But some will. Whether in workplaces, families, or religious communities, there will always be those who whisper behind closed doors, who twist your words, who reveal what was shared in sacred confidence.

Perhaps the deepest wound of betrayal is not merely the breach of trust, but the silence in which it is committed; the lack of presence to defend oneself, to clarify, to correct. There is something cruel in being judged in absence, misrepresented in whispers. Psalm 41 gives voice to that pain:

"My enemies say with malice: 'When will he die and be forgotten?'
My visitor speaks falsehood; he gathers slander in his heart;
he goes out and spreads it abroad…
They imagine the worst for me: 'He will never rise again.'" (Psalm 41:5–8)

These ancient words still echo in our modern wounds.

Yet not all is lost in the face of betrayal. There is hope. There is healing.

One of the wisest things we can do is to become the kind of person we ourselves wish we could trust. Someone who keeps confidences as sacred, who does not need to be told “don’t repeat this” because integrity is second nature. Someone who chooses dignity over drama, and compassion over gossip.

There are people in my past who never got close to knowing me—not because I was aloof, but because they had not earned my trust. And perhaps that’s the quiet wisdom life teaches us: you cannot share your soul with those who do not treasure it. We are not here to harden or to hide, but to love. And to love well, we must learn when to open our hearts, and when to guard them.

Trust is not a soft virtue; it is a strong one. It is forged in honesty, humility, and the ability to keep another’s story safe. And those who live trustworthy lives not only gain the respect of others—they gain the deeper dignity of self-respect. They sleep with a clear conscience. They speak without hidden agendas. They love without fear of betrayal, because they themselves would never betray.

So, if the question stings— “What mark out of ten would they give me?”—treasure the sting. Let it be a wake-up call, not a condemnation. A call to step into maturity, into grace, into a trustworthy life.

Because in the end, a life of trust is more peaceful. It’s more human. It’s more like Christ.