One of the greatest lines in history—six one-syllable words—comes from the old hymn, Amazing Grace: “Twas blind, but now I see.” That so often inscribes the summation of an act, a relationship, a failure, even a reach for the good.
On October 30, 2007, a doctor dropped a diagnosis of cancer on Joanne, my wife. Over the following five months, we lived in a shadowland of sirens screaming through the night, conflicting reports, confusing options, and continuous testing. Her doctor grew increasingly pessimistic. In his darkest pronouncement, he suggested it may be time for “palliative care.”
In the early morning hours of March 6, 2008, I thought Joanne was dying. After a hard night, including another trip to the ER, and her increasingly gray pallor, the swirling dark waters pulled me under. The searing numbness of imminent loss broke something inside. It surely seemed like The End.
The Terrible Tour
Then, throughout the pre-dawn darkness, God ignored my emotions as He pulled me through our house in a guided tour of my royal Edness. We stopped at several “scenic overviews” so He could point out the severity of my blindness.
The first stop took me to her office, where I stared at the large cork board of her pen pal photos. Forty women Joanne wrote to, prayed for, and encouraged in phone calls. I had never understood her “wasted time” on people she didn’t really know. But in that moment, I faced my visual impairment about her. I felt shame as I saw the pure heart that compelled her to reach out to hurting people.
As the tour continued, I saw the box of neatly organized sheets of stickers on her desk. Joanne had long carried a giggling joy for brightly colored little adhesive stickers—cats and candy canes, flowers and frogs, bicycles and butterflies. She splashed them bountifully across letters, greeting cards, calendars, and scrapbooks.
I saw the money she spent for the stickers. But standing there, I could only see the small spirit that turned such delightful colors of Joanne into a problem.
The next scenic overview was our closet, where my fingers brushed the silks, cottons, leathers, and linens which adorned this fine lady. My throat burned as her fragrance rose from the fabrics. I was ashamed to remember how I had questioned the money she spent on clothes. A question passed before my eyes: “What can you afford for her funeral dress?”
The Higher View
Joanne and I have had a long and wonderful marriage. Ask anyone. But, throughout that awful morning, I had to deal with a higher standard of measurement—one that didn’t come from our family, friends, or culture.
As the tour finally came to an end, ancient words from Job became my own: “I had only heard about you before, but now I have seen you with my own eyes. I take back everything I said...”[1]
It all came down to one of the great human mysteries. Why do we not see people as they really are until they draw near death? How can our view of loved ones dare to withhold blessing until … what? Why is the jury always out, even for those great treasures, like our spouses and children, whom God deposited in our lives?
Apparently, we need new eyes.
On April 2, 2008, Joanne’s surgeon removed a softball-sized mass. He said it was the largest non-cancerous tumor he had ever seen. Our long journey was over. We had passed through the valley of the shadow of death, that cold midnight ride of low-hanging branches and eerie shrieks from the forest.
We came out of it with Joanne’s good health and a larger future. But I came out of it with more than that. A severe mercy gave me the gift of seeing my wife—and myself—with new eyes.
[1] Job 42:5-6 taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW LIVING TRANSLATION, Copyright© 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
