The red topper to our 1980 dirt-brown Ford pickup rattled loud, so you could always hear our truck coming before you saw it. I usually pretended not to see it whenever Dad or Mom came for me. I wouldn’t notice the wheels and paneling made smoky gray from layers and layers of dust, or the plaid blanket used to cover the grill in winter, or the edges of the body bumpy with rust. Before the pickup could get too close, I’d choke down my self-concept, run to meet my approaching ride, slide into the front seat, and beg the driver to make haste.
When no one was around it was easier. I always knew how to handle things when no one else was around.
Sometimes, when I could rest and think clearly—think with my heart, deep down—I sensed that my hurts were real and right, but they weren’t really about a dirty pickup.
But this drawing isn’t about hurt as much as it is about sight. I’ll trade pain for sight any day. Seeing is everything. It’s why I like the front seat. That’s also why I give thanks for those in my journey whom God has used to heal my eyes. I’ve learned to fly because of you, and the view from the heights is healing my heart. I think the 7-year-old boy in me knew a day like this would come. Ultimately, all the good stories converge.
“For you have been my hope,
O Sovereign LORD,
my confidence since my youth.
From birth I have relied on you;
you brought me forth from my mother’s womb. I will ever praise you.”
(Psalm 70:5-6)