Two friends in my women’s group have recently gone through eye surgeries. This morning as I pour through the weekly prayer requests and bits of news I read of improving conditions, healing corneas and fewer aches and pains. The relief they describe is shared by the rest of us who have anxiously traveled alongside via daily reports and notes of thanks for doctors, nurses and friends who have been by their side through the slow and difficult recovery.
What would it be like to not see?
Like most young girls I devoured the Hellen Keller story. To know that a girl my age was blind piqued my curiosity immensely. Her emotional outbursts made sense to me. How did she get from the bed to the bathroom without hitting a wall? How did she figure out all of the ice cream flavors? What did it feel like when the sun was shining?
What did it look like inside her mind?
Our curiosity with lightness and darkness begins early. To celebrate Rachel’s 12th birthday last week we dug out dozens of new baby videos for the kids to see. Thanks to the miracle of iPhones in those golden moments just after birth, today we can relive the exact moment when they opened their eyes for the first time in a bright new world. I see something I didn’t see before. I see their eyes. The way they blink and stare. There’s something curious about the way they look at friendly faces and foreign places. I’m seeing them, seeing light, for the first time.
Hellen Keller, my recovering friends, and newborn babies. All yearning to see the light, basking in the light, knowing the light, wanting the light.
How I love to see the light too.