vision

When I was 12, I was told by an optometrist that I had the eyes of a 40-year-old. I wasn't sure what that would mean for me later on, but it was sort of a scary thing to say to an impressionable young girl.

I didn't realize that it was possible to see things clearly. As long as I held a book close enough to my face, I had no problems reading it, but when I got out of bed in the morning pretty much everything beyond the tip of my nose was at least slightly out of focus. I thought it was this way for everyone.

As a good student in school my lack of vision remained undetected since I usually sat in the front of the classroom and was able to see my textbooks. It wasn't until I started getting bad grades in math, since many of the problems were written on the blackboard, that I was given a vision test. A trip to the "eye doctor" filled me with excitement and dread. I already had red hair, pale skin and freckles. I would now have to wear glasses, too?!

I still remember walking out of the doctor's office wearing my new pair of gold, oval-shaped, wire-rimmed glasses. It was a beautiful, sunny day and as I looked up at the trees I was absolutely mesmerized as I watched each individual leaf blowing in the breeze. Never before had I seen this! I had grown accustomed to seeing trees as large, green images, more like paintings done in an impressionist style than as they actually were. Images that had never been in focus came into view. I could see the expressions on the faces of people as they were noticing a little girl who had just awakened to a brand new world.

Of course I was then teased mercilessly as "four-eyes" in addition to already being called "carrot-top" which then evolved into "cry baby" for obvious reasons. But if this was the price I had to pay for being able to see, so be it. The other price was the limitations glasses would impose on my lifestyle. I have wondered if I could have been more athletic if I did not need corrective lenses. If my glasses fogged up while skiing, I was in real trouble. I never progressed much beyond the bunny hill. And while swimming I was at a disadvantage since I never knew who that blurry shape was swimming near me or talking to me, unless I recognized the voice. In a pool I was nervous I would run into the wall. I didn't become a great swimmer either. Working out and running wearing glasses can sometimes be a problem in warm weather. Clip-on sunglasses have improved dramatically over the years and though I now have prescription sunglasses and even prescription swim goggles, I'm still not much of an athlete.

As I reached my young adult years I decided for reasons of pure vanity that I needed contact lenses. I was convinced my big, clunky glasses of the late 1970s were part of the reason I could never reach the ranks of the type of girl who would be a serious contender for homecoming queen. So when I left behind my small town and headed for life at college, I confidently showed up wearing contacts, which were great for everything except for reading--which for me meant that I was constantly taking them out and putting back on my glasses. I would wear my contacts out on dates even though they always made my eyes red and I could not wait for the point in which I could take them out and go back to my real self. I was like the opposite of Clark Kent, being far more powerful when I was wearing my glasses than when I wasn't.

I depend upon my glasses completely. I think about where I put them down, always making sure they will be protected. I ask myself when people are thrown into lakes or pools that if my turn ever comes up, will someone have the foresight to take off my glasses first? I would hope so. My glasses are the first thing I reach for in the morning and the last thing I take off before turning out the light. Life as I know it would be impossible without them.

Forty years later and I strain to see my computer screen knowing that I am well overdue to see the optometrist and perhaps get a stronger bifocal lens. I never did get good grades in math. I wonder, how old are my eyes now?

callouses

Due to the nature of my art, I often form callouses on the fingers I use most for hand sewing. The extra layers of skin serve to help shield the ends of my fingers from the sharp end of the needle that still manages to surprise me when I'm not fully alert. Sometimes when my hands become abnormally dry, since I wash them constantly in my other life as a preschool teacher, the tips of my calloused fingers will crack open and bleed. In order for the pain to subside, new callouses must form.

My heart, in a figurative sense, suffers the same condition as my fingers.

The way the process works is that in times of sadness, after the tears have dried up and the attempt for reflection and analysis has been made, I expect a resolution. But when answers are not forthcoming and the pain becomes too much to bear, a callous begins to form. Imperceptible at first it is nothing more than a less emotional response to words and images that would have previously evoked a deeper reaction. As a second layer of callous is well on its way of forming, I do not give my condition much thought, and look for distractions. And just when it would seem that numbness would set in, it is as though this thick callous of indifference actually gives itself one more chance by becoming angry.

Anger can be a powerful agent in motivating oneself to do and say things otherwise unthinkable. But when it comes to solving problems, anger falls far short. It wields its ugly head in defiance to reason and with whatever energy it can gather it takes on the matter at hand with judgment, not mercy and a strength that is not tempered with love. It seeks its own immediate gratification and not the long-suffering road once familiar to someone who values harmonious relationships. An answer must be found, anger decides. Caution is thrown to the wind. The possibilities of casualties mount. Anything resembling a peaceful solution be damned.

It is precisely at that moment of reckoning, when the callous on my heart breaks open, that I am startled back into reality. I once again experience clarity in my thinking and see how my need to resolve a situation resulted in more pain.

I remember a time after many months of suffering asking God what I could do that would be as outrageous as what had been done to me by the person I was at war with. In the heat of the battle, the Spirit of God spoke to my heart and told me that what I was trying to obtain was not mine. Gripped with anger and fear, but before I could even formulate a response, the still small voice in my heart reassured me that the other person was not meant to obtain it either. Provision belonged to the Lord as it always had. My calloused heart of stone returned to a heart of flesh and I was able to forgive the person I saw as my enemy and forgive myself for giving her that title.

And yet I continue to engage in a struggle to keep the callouses from forming on my heart when difficult situations arise. I find myself wanting to logically and intellectually solve issues that can only be dealt with by the Almighty. As I keep looking for new possibilities, options to try, paths yet untaken to traverse, right on schedule the callous breaks open and I welcome the pain I tried so hard to avoid, knowing that having faith doesn't mean having answers to trust in; it means having the willingness to trust in the One who has the answers.




     

when friend became a verb

Last night, while making an attempt to be understood in the fewest possible words on someone's Facebook post, with questionable success, I became aware of a post searching for a childhood friend's address so he can be invited to our upcoming high school class reunion. Similar to the thinking one uses when one tries to find missing keys, the online conversation had to do with where anyone had seen him last. The last day I remember seeing him was the day of our high school graduation. I remember running up to him out on the lawn and hugging him, knowing that even though we were from the same home town, there was no guarantee we would ever see each other again.

We had become friends perhaps in part because we grew up a couple of miles from each other on farms. Since our parents knew each other and we attended the same church in town, our friendship was convenient if nothing else, especially when we were sent to the Catholic school for first grade and would have to ride back and forth with each other's mother. We spent many hours playing outside as children who grow up in the country do. It was more than that though as we made our way through the difficulties of navigating the school social scene. We were friends with each other when others were not friends with either of us. As long as we at least had each other, it seemed ok. We could add others to our childhood games but there was an unspoken trust of friendship between us that was not broken.

After going to kindergarten through eighth grade together in our small country school across the road from my family's cherry orchard, we headed to the only high school in our tiny town where all of the outlying country schools would offer up their students. Friendship took on new meaning as we were suddenly thrown together with other groups of kids who had known each other since their first day of school. Finding one's place and status was a confusing process and being a one-friend kind of girl most of the time, I often was unsure who to call my friend and who I was better off not qualifying in that way. And even though we often ended up in different places with different people, I knew if I were to ever need anything, I could call on him. He was still my friend.

Going to college changed everything. Some friends were getting married while I was staying up all night studying. Others were taking over their family farms or heading off to serve our country while I dreamed of pursuing something bigger than the confines of small town life. Keeping in touch demanded a great deal of time and effort before modern technology and unless I was coming home and making a point of visiting old friends who had decided to continue their lives there, we would part ways and have only the memories to live on.

High school reunions are a bit of a cliche and yet the older I get the more interested I become in attending. What I once thought I had to prove about success has faded, along with the color of my hair as the gray/white strands are becoming more numerous around the edges of my face. Looking a certain way or having a certain career become blurred like my vision. What once seemed so important has had several decades to change its mind. What remains is a connection with a person who knows me. Someone who remembers what I was like before life happened. Someone I have always called friend.

But now that friend has become a verb, everything is different--again. What was once a term reserved for the most special people in my life, can be applied to a mere acquaintance or even a customer eager to do business with me. We no longer befriend someone. We friend them by requesting that they become our Facebook "friends" and invite them to this somewhat imaginary world of ridiculous posts featuring cats, political statements and motivational quotes. We act as if this is real friendship. We want to believe that it is. Because if it is not, we will have to face the fact that the hundreds of people who have accepted our friend requests may not really be all that close to us. We may only have a handful of people we can call when someone dies or we really need to talk or be reminded that we are loved.

My friend was found on Facebook and by the end of the night I had summoned the courage to invite him to be my friend . . . again.