Blurred Vision

I have a restricted Driver’s License. Because everything in the distance is a blur, I’m required to wear glasses whenever I’m behind the wheel. I went into the DMV to renew my license recently (which is another Brushstroke I’ll save for Lent) and the woman behind the desk asked if I’d like to try to pass the eye exam without my glasses. Knowing if I passed, my license would no longer be restricted, I agreed enthusiastically. Unfortunately, I was unable to get past the first line of letters before reaching for my glasses. 

I thought little of the moment until I sat talking with friends recently. It dawned on me that, like my experience at the DMV, I often think my vision is better than it is. Even with eyes squinted, I believe my vision is 20/20. It’s not. Whether watching the news, or talking to a friend, I mistakenly think I see things clearly, when, in fact, my vision is blurred. I need glasses to help me see more clearly.

The fact is, we all need glasses. Regardless of where we find ourselves on the political or religious spectrums these days, there’s no denying we’re living through tumultuous times. More than any one issue, our greatest challenge is admitting we all have blurred vision. Too often, we defiantly think we see things as they are when the truth is we can hardly see beyond the first line. No matter how clever we are, how successful, how educated, or how religious, our vision is blurred. 

The question is, will we have the humility to admit our impaired vision and reach for glasses? Will we learn to listen to another point of view? Will we watch a different channel? Will we talk (and not argue) with those holding different views? Will we loosen our grip on our long-held beliefs?

It was embarrassing to have to reach for my glasses when I failed the test at the DMV, but not nearly as embarrassing as admitting my need for other corrective lenses. Somehow, I need to accept my imperfect sight and do what I can to see more clearly. Otherwise, I’ll find myself standing by myself, with only my pride and blurry vision to keep me company.

Foot Washing

They arrived before me, eager to make the most of the cooler morning hours and a beach empty of crowds. Dressed in new running shoes and expensive exercise clothes, they walked far from the water with arms flailing wildly as they began their morning workout at a pace that prevented conversation or looking for shells. I, on the other hand, was dressed in only a bathing suit and tee shirt, and my bare feet only wanted to stroll. I had come to the beach for different kind of exercise.

In the gospels, there’s a story about Jesus washing the disciples’ feet. They were surprised by the humility and touched by the intimacy of such a gesture. Peter protested, of course, but, in the end, Jesus knelt in front of them with a bowl of water on the floor and a towel draped over his shoulder. It was a night of surprises, but as they left the upper room the disciples felt closer to Jesus than ever before.

I suppose I came to the beach in hopes God would wash my feet. Too often, I run through life far from the water, flailing my arms and unable to notice the world and people around me. But this morning, when I heard the waves call me from my bedroom, I rose early and went for a walk. Inching toward the shore, I felt overwhelmed by the intimacy of such a moment, just as I was fearful the waves would pull away if I drew close. So it is when unworthiness walks too close beside me.

A wave slid up the shore and covered my feet and legs with cool salt water. The wet sand gave way to my weight and my feet were enveloped in the wet sand. I paused and let another wave come, then another. Large clouds on the horizon took their morning stretch, and seagulls swooped searching for breakfast. A cool breeze traveled along the shore and glanced my cheek. I didn’t protest. I accepted the moment, accepted the gift, with opened arms.

Trinity Sunday

My sister is an artist who uses a needle and thread to create works of art that adorn many houses other than her own. In my closet, there are needlepoint belts, and on a number of chairs there are beautiful pillows. At some point, she turned her creative talents to quilting and created one that lies at the foot of our guestroom bed. It is a masterpiece of intricate patterns and beautiful colors. If looked at from afar, it stands on its own as a beautiful quilt. One pattern fits into another, one color blends into the one beside it, so its hard to tell where one ends and another begins. If you draw close, however, you can see the individual pieces of fabric and specific colors.

It’s not unlike my sister herself. The hands that created the quilt are the hands of a sister, but they’re also the hands of a daughter, mother, wife, and friend. From afar, all I can see is a gifted woman working, but, drawing closer in my mind, I can see her different roles like pieces of fabric in a quilt. It is impossible to see where one role ends and another begins, and yet she is each of those people and one person whose so much more all at the same time. 

Too often, I sit in church and try to figure God out. I think that if I go often enough, and sit long enough, and think hard enough, I will eventually understand God. But, even in my determination, I know it’s a futile desire to comprehend the one who “surpasses all human understanding.” Today was Trinity Sunday, a day in which we celebrate the Father, Son and Holy Spirit as three in one. Even when thought of as creator, redeemer, and sustainer the math doesn't add up and it feels like I’m dividing God into boxes. God is the individual persons, the specific roles, and yet remains a comprehensive whole that's more than the combined parts. It’s impossible to see where one ends and the others begin. It all made me dizzy, so I decided to take a nap in the guestroom under my sister’s beautiful quilt.