Honesty is 20/20 Vision

To admit that one can’t see to read is indeed a step of courage and strength.  When one loses any particular sense, such as sight or hearing, the denial is often an extended period of words and actions, which speak otherwise.  It’s the individual who desperately needs a hearing aid but insists that others are mumbling.  It’s the individual who needs cataract surgery but insists the lights are too dim.  Denial works its way within every one of us at different levels and various times.  Denial can often serve as Divine Morphine to help us cope with the tragedy, but at some point, it must stop. Otherwise, one goes through life perpetuating a lie. 

Within two years of learning I had diabetic retinopathy, my right eye was completely gone and my left eye had progressed to severe legal blindness.  Because the eye wasn’t totally blind, I felt like it somehow would regain its sight.  This hope wasn’t necessarily a false one but certainly not a very realistic perspective.  Various medical staff gave me good advice and basically said, “Mike, if you regain your sight, great!  If you don’t ever get any better than you are now, then why not go ahead and learn how to live as blind people do.”  The advice sounded good and reasonable, but in my heart, I wasn’t ready to admit I needed that kind of help.  That, to me, was admitting defeat.  However, I think I knew deep down inside that it was inevitable.

As a result, I would wear my bifocals, even though they didn’t help.  I would look and act like I was sighted in any way possible just to let others know I wasn’t giving up. Hence, they shouldn’t treat me as a blind person.  Who knows what I thought that was?  For the most part, I felt I played the part pretty well and since nobody said anything to me about it, I didn’t mind putting forth the enormous effort that it took.  Boy, did it take effort to act sighted, when I was really blind. 

Sometimes, friends would ask, “Mike, have you ever thought about getting a Guide Dog?”  I would confidently discuss it even though I knew absolutely nothing about it.  If someone even suggested a white cane from the Lion’s Club, I would say, “I’m not at that point yet!”  Now, in all of this suggestion and prodding, it never once occurred to me that any of my friends or family might have even noticed I was faking it.  Ah, but is denial true blindness?

When it came to church and reading my Bible, I did have the Scripture on cassette tape.  Of course, I couldn’t use the tapes in church or in a Sunday school class, but it did help at home.  Terri, my wife, managed to locate and order a giant print Bible and with a very powerful magnifying glass, I was able to read slowly.  Very slowly, I might add.  We would go to church each Sunday and I would carry my new giant print Bible and when the preacher spoke or anyone read a verse, I would open mine and stare at it like I could see it. 

Who was I kidding? This went on week after week until one day my loving heavenly Father said “Enough!” 

Through our Sunday school teacher, Jim, who by the way was also my diabetic doctor, God gently moved me to a point of crisis, where I had to come clean with my problem. 

One Sunday morning, Jim asked several of us in the class to read various passages or verses of the Bible.  He asked three or four to read and then he asked me to take one verse.  With that request, my heart leaped for I knew that if I didn’t have the particular verse memorized, I was going to have to face the “ Mt. Everest ” of my life.  As you might suspect, I had never heard of the verse and consequently, I knew I was sunk. 

While the others boldly read, my heart sunk to my stomach, my hands started to get clammy and even shake and sweat began to bead up on my brow.  My fear of people knowing what I assumed would shock them, made me want to run away and hide, but I couldn’t even do that. 

Finally, “ Mt. Everest ” came and Jim said, “Mike, go ahead and read your verse now!”  Silence filled the room while tears filled my eyes.  I tried to hold my head up but I felt so weak.  Somehow, by the grace and strength of God, I managed to exhale the words, “Jim I can’t.  I can’t see to read any more.”  Awaiting the gasps of shock and horror, my hand that had so confidently held my giant print, dropped to my lap.  What followed were these compassionate words.  “Mike.  We already know and it’s alright.” 

Sitting there in a sea of fear and humiliation, I felt the hands of others on my shoulder, which had gathered around us at the teacher’s request.  Several prayed for God’s help in our lives.  My humiliation turned to humility and my fears washed away by the tears of others.  For the first time in a long time, I felt freedom like I’d not felt before.  I could then begin to learn how to be visually impaired.  The denial was gone, my spiritual cataract removed, and my life changed from that point forth.