healthy eyes
Frosty morning, and I sit by the fire still sleepy, wrapped cozy and soft, protectively sheltered like some valuable thing. I want to call this a deception, the layered swaddling of cushioning warmth–not just the clothing, the blanket, the velvety socks on my feet but the tissue, the skin, as though admitting my soul deep brokenness precludes any need for treasuring. In the vulnerable blindness of these waking hours, I still fractionally expect that only people admired by other people merit such precious handling. But even groggy, I recognize these ideas as shades, as untruths I hardly knew I had harbored. And then Kevin brings me coffee, puts warmth right in my empty hands, smiles at me in that way that says, you are priceless to me. And then I recognize the truth again: God makes treasure out of brokenness.
“Thank you,” I say, returning the smile, meaning more than just the coffee, and Riley, whom I had not seen on the stairs slow-walking into the morning, laughs with delight. The sound seems to brighten and waken, like the early trilling of a bird disturbing the silence and darkness of night.
She walks in the room and I raise my eyebrows in question, taking in her rumpled face, stray wisps springing from her brassy braids, eyes still puffy with sleep, and that grin, half curled on the one side. It would be wrong to call Riley a morning person; if she’s awake, she’s shimmering. She glances from me, sitting low in the chair with my hands wrapped around my mug, to Kevin, who has just settled on the sofa with is own steaming cup, and back to me. For a moment, it feels like a divine pause, the three of us semi-frozen this way without comment. Only her head moves, swinging back and forth between us, and the steam curls above our coffee, and her delighted laughter chimes the only sound.
Our grins stretch. I do not need to ask her what or why; it isn’t the first time I have seen Riley thrill over our acts of love. Kevin and I attract her attention in nearly every small gesture of our affection for each other, and every witness sends her soaring. I think of that verse about love, how it “does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth;” I think of something else Paul wrote about how thanksgiving overflows in witness to the receipt of grace. Riley’s reactions consistently follow that compass. In the smallest gifts—this coffee mug placed in my hands, that smile that tells the truth, she rejoices. Riley has healthy eyes–she looks for love; she stares, wide-eyed, at truth. I sit back a moment just watching her shine, thinking of the promise of Jesus, that if the eyes are healthy the whole body will be full of light. I think of how, by comparison, when shocked with the witness of any brand of hatefulness or unkindness, she presses her hands flat against her face; I think of how evil always makes her gasp. As she turns away from us and the sounds of her delight continue to awaken the day, I give thanks that God uses her light to open my eyes, that He uses her to teach me again how to see.
