That January morning began beautifully. Even at 4:30 am, my husband was wide awake and in a silly mood. Getting ready for work, Steve teased me and told jokes until I wasbreathless from laughter. After handing him his lunch box and the cell phone, Ikissed him goodbye and watched him drive away, offering my usual prayer for his safety.
Ten minutes later as I sorted the laundry, I was startled by the ringing of the phone. No one ever called at 5 in the morning so I instinctively knew it was Steve and that something was wrong. When I answered, all I heard was my husband’s voice weakly repeating my name. "What’s wrong?" I blurted out in a panic. "I don’t know," hereplied. "Help me, please help me!" By now I was fighting back tears, my heart pounding in my chest. "Where are you??" He didn’t know. His voice faded. I screamed for him to hold on, that I was coming to find him.
Hanging up the phone, I stumbled up the stairs, frantically pulling jeans on over my pajamas, and sliding slippers on my feet. I grabbed my purse and fumbled for the truck keys and my glasses. It was at that moment that I realized I was in trouble. I had just undergone a series of six eye surgeries, and as a result my vision was severely clouded, making me unable to drive and causing night blindness. Now, here I was in the middle of winter preparing to drive in the dark to look for my husband. Fear socked me in the gut, and I entertained the thought that by the time I found Steve, he would be dead or that I might be killed, driving completely blind.
Then, like the Psalmist, in my moment of despair I cried out to God. "Jesus, be my eyes!" I didn’t take the time to defrost the windshield. Screeching out of the driveway, I started down the road that Steve traveled on his commute to work. My head hung out the driver’s window and I couldn’t see the lines on the road. Twice I narrowly missed sliding into the ditch, but I never stopped praying, "Jesus, be my eyes! Help me to find him in time!" Somehow the normal heavy traffic of that time of morning stayed a safe distance from my weaving truck, and I was able to make out enough landmarks to know which light to turn at. But I didn’t know if he had stopped in the street, pulled off to the side, or even into a parking lot. It would be so easy to go right past him. "Jesus, be my eyes!" There were so many lights glaring, so many colors moving in different directions. How would I ever be able to see him?
And then, just ahead on the right, I saw it. Tail lights, a vehicle parked awkwardlybetween the edge of the road and a corn field. I pulled up behind the car and jumped out, leaving the truck engine running and ignoring the vehicles speeding past me just inches away. Inside, I found Steve slumped over on his side, one arm outstretched, the cell phone still in his hand. I was able to rouse him enough to get a moan and a few mumbled words, and then called for the paramedics.
It was not until many hours later sitting by his hospital bed in the cardiac ward that I broke down. As Steve rested, I told him what had happened, and about how I literally could not see to find him. We realized the miracle that God had granted us in our moment of need, when I cried out, "Jesus, be my eyes!" For years, my favorite Scripture passage has been Psalm 142:3a. "When my spirit grows faint within me, it is You whoknows my way." That day, I truly understood what that verse means. When I am unable, God is able. When I am lost, He knows the path. When I cannot see, He will be my eyes. All I need do is ask, and trust.
