I'll never forget standing in the yard at my grandparents' house, timid age 4, clinging to my dad's hand, neck craned, looking waaaaaaay up at tall Uncle Art's face. My daunting assignment? To tell him thank you.
I'd been born cross-eyed. Uncle Art fixed my eyes when I was a year and a half old. For free. For love. He's the reason I can see straight to type this post.
My dad started the conversation. "Art, Becky has something she'd like to say to you."
Uncle Art squatted down to my eye-level. No longer tall and intimidating. Gentle. A touch of humor playing around his own eyes.
Remembering my rehearsed line, I whispered softly, "Thank you for fixing my eyes..."
Uncle Art shook my hand gravely. "You're very welcome," he said, gazing intently. "You have beautiful eyes." I got the impression he was giving me a little follow-up exam, right there on the spot. "And it looks like you're doing just fine," he affirmed.
He patted my shoulder and stood, returning casually to his grownup conversation with my other uncles. A day of kindly work for him, a lifetime of clear vision for me.
What a beautiful, tangible, lifelong picture of Christ.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost but now am found
Was blind but now I see