I was seven years old and in the third grade when I got my first pair of glasses. Written assignments felt tedious back then, so I came up with what seemed like a clever plan: answer a couple of questions, skip the next one, and hope the teacher wouldn’t notice.
She noticed. But instead of calling me out, she sent a note home, worried I couldn’t see well enough to do the work.
My parents took me to the eye doctor. I remember wanting to insist my vision was fine, but admitting that would’ve meant confessing my little scheme. I sat there hoping the doctor would prove me right. Instead, he told me I needed glasses. And for the next 50-plus years, glasses were part of my life.
Then came cataract surgery—two operations, a month apart. Afterward, once those cloudy lenses were replaced, I could suddenly see the clock across the room at night without fumbling for glasses. It felt like a small, unexpected miracle.
My distance vision was sharp, but up close? A blur. That’s when I understood why men wore those half-glasses on the ends of their noses. I used to laugh at them. Suddenly, I was one of them. Hello, reading glasses.
At first, not being able to read a book or my phone without grabbing a pair felt discouraging. You rely on something your whole life, and when it changes, you feel off balance. Add in the constant misplacing—glasses on counters, nightstands, and the car, and it became a daily comedy.
Typing without them didn’t help. Wrong keys, gibberish, frustration rising—until I’d realize the glasses were exactly where I left them, on the top of my head.
It’s funny now, but it reminds me of something deeper. I can lose spiritual perspective just as easily. When I rely on my own vision instead of God’s, things get blurry. Not all at once—slowly, subtly, the way life tends to drift when you’re not paying attention.
Most Christians would say they believe the Bible is true and meant to guide their lives. I’d say the same. But a closed Bible sitting on the end table isn’t guiding anyone. It’s like reading glasses perched on your head—you have what you need, but you’re not using it.
Meanwhile, the world is quick to offer its own advice:
Get even. Fire back. Keep the package that isn’t yours—who’s going to know?
But when we open Scripture, God calls us higher.
Jesus says, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” (Matthew 5:43–44)
And Ezekiel 18:7 shows the righteous living with integrity—caring for the needy, not taking advantage of them.
One thing that trips me up is how fast I react. I jump before I pause. I speak before I pray. But we’re meant to slow down before God and ask, What would my Father have me do right now? When we do, we begin to live as He calls us to live—and the peace He gives lasts.
“When a man’s ways please the Lord, He makes even his enemies to be at peace with him.” (Proverbs 16:7)
. . . and that’s what I know today.