My eyes are wet again. Tears? Holy saliva? Whatever. Wet leaves are smudgy. Opaque. Dry leaves are scale. The scales fall first. Autumn was crunchy at first. And God hand is wiping and again wiping smudge from my sight.
Then He wipes again and makes me look up. And dare I say I am seeing things, people, situations, life seasons, more clearly? That I am seeing truer even as the eyes in my head are becoming both near and far-sighted? I nod, “Yes,” full of holy.
I don’t have bread in the oven, but I can smell it even over the cleaning solution and saturated paper towels.
I turn knobs. All four knobs. And open. Open. Open. Open the doors. Go out just like the blind man went out with Jesus.
And Jesus said, “Don’t go back into the town” (Mark 8:26-paraphrase). To me that means, “Don’t go back to seeing things the way you used to.”
I feel the rain and wind on patio. I feel urge to take my bare feet to stand like that in damp leaves before pecan tree. But I don’t. I don’t need to, because I have come to table.
I’m trying not to go back to seeing things the way I used to. I don’t prefer blindness and am less and less content with opaqueness. And of course. Because Christ’s hand has wiped and I’m seeing truer. It’s happened. And is happening.
I go inside. Toss the paper towels. And wait for my German to come home from work. I want to look up on my own. Eye to eye. Not a lashed look. Not in the cup of his hand.
But because I have washed window doors and wind has swiped and Christ hand has touched eyes.