Glasses

I remember that when I was younger, I used to think it would be awful to have to wear glasses. It wasn't because I thought they looked strange. In fact, I was known to try on a pair or two just to evaluate the cosmetic effect. ( Nevermind the fact that it kills my eyes to look through prescription glasses.) No, it wasn't for appearance that I loathed the thought of wearing glasses, but rather the thought of admitting that one part of my body had failed.

I reluctantly admit that I battle perfectionist tendencies. Not that I believe that seeking perfection is a bad thing. Jesus is perfect, and I long to be like Him as all Christians do. It's the bit about being displeased with anything that is not perfect that I won't let pitch a tent in my mind. Jesus loves us, beings that are far from perfection. So, why should I fear imperfection?

Plenty of reasons: discontentment, boredom, loneliness, rejection, worthlessness.

All reasons that vanish in the light of the Gospel and are quickly replaced with "love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control" (Gal. 5:22) The blinding light of the Gospel is this: God loves me. I didn't do a single thing to earn it. I was dead and He gave me life. I was lost and now I'm found.

Suppose I DID need glasses, but I never knew. The world would have looked dull and blurred. But, I wouldn't have known the difference. And, I didn't. Until, I started to meet people who did. I met people who were sick but still had joy. I met people who admitted their own failures, awful things that they had done or thought or said, but didn't cower in fear of man or of death. I met people who were hungry, but smiled widely. Graciously, God did give me glasses: He gave me the Law.

I slipped them onto my eyes and saw the world as it really was. The sun shone brighter, blood appeared redder, mountains rose higher and valleys stooped lower. I looked at myself and found a tattered being: scratched, beaten, bruised, and dirty. I wanted to lay the glasses aside because it was too painful to see the world in disarray and to see myself as I truly am. But, there was something different about those who could see: they had peace and hope and unending joy.

They told me about a Doctor. He could heal me, they said. He had healed many others. But, did the operation actually work? Did this Doctor even exist? What if I didn't like what I saw?
I relented my fears. I abandoned my control. I accepted the help from the Doctor.

As I opened my eyes to see for the first time, I squinted and held my breath as I lowered my head to gaze again upon my own brokenness. But just then, my eyes burst open wide, my throat began to tighten, my eyes began to glisten. I was as good as new.

He handed me His card. "Tell others about Me," He said. He shone His face upon me and I walked lightly to the door. I looked down and flipped the card over. On the back, I slowly read the shining letters written in large handwriting: "Making all things new."