Strangely Dim

What Blurry Vision Taught Me About Where I've Really Been Looking

I was sitting in the waiting room of the cornea specialist’s office, my foot bouncing like it had somewhere better to be. The kind of place where everything feels a little too quiet and your thoughts get a little too loud.

If I take out my contacts, I’m blind.

No, really. Legally blind.

And recently, things had gotten worse. My right eye started seeing double—like my world had decided one version of reality just wasn’t enough. After a series of appointments, tests, and a whole lot of “Which is better… one or two?” I found myself back in that chair again.

You know the one.

Cold metal pressed up against your face.
Chin resting. Forehead still.
Trapped between “just relax” and I would actually like to escape now, please.

The lenses flipped back and forth.

“One… or two?”
“Two… or three?”

And I tried. I really did. I squinted. I strained. I wanted to get it right. But I couldn’t see. And before I knew it, the tears came. Y’all… not being able to see is scary and frustrating. I felt like I was the problem. Like I just wasn’t doing it right.

Eventually, the verdict came: cataracts. Surgery. New lenses. Adjustments. Waiting.

Solutions, yes.
But also a whole lot of what ifs.

What if something goes wrong?
What if my vision doesn’t improve?
What if I lose it altogether?
What if I can’t see my youngest grow up?
What if I can’t keep writing… keep doing the very thing I feel called to do?

What if… what if… what if…

And somewhere in the middle of that spiral, a quiet question rose to the surface:

What if I’m focused on all the wrong things?

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A hymn came to mind—one I’ve heard countless times but suddenly felt in a new way:

Turn your eyes upon Jesus
Look full in His wonderful face
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim
In the light of His glory and grace

I’ve always loved those words.

But if I’m being honest, I think I’ve often lived them backwards.

I’ve spent more time looking at the “things of earth”—the problems, the fears, the unknowns—and then occasionally glancing toward Jesus, hoping He’d make sense of it all.

But what if clarity doesn’t come from trying harder to see everything else clearly?

What if it comes from fixing our eyes on Him?

On my wall, there’s a sticky note in my own handwriting:

“Shame distorts the story we tell ourselves.”

And I think fear does something similar.

It distorts what we see.
It magnifies what feels threatening.
It convinces us that what’s right in front of us is the whole story.

But it’s not.

Because when I look at Jesus—really look—
I’m reminded:

He is not surprised by my situation.
He is not limited by my diagnosis.
He is not pacing heaven, wondering what to do next.

He sees clearly… even when I can’t.

Have you ever stared at a light for a few seconds—and then when you look away, you can still see it? That glow stays with you. It lingers, even when your eyes shift.

That’s the kind of sight I want.

Not perfect vision.
Not all the answers.
Not a life free of uncertainty.

But a focus so steady on Jesus
that even when I look at everything else—
the fear, the unknown, the “what ifs”—
I’m still seeing through the light of who He is.

Because maybe spiritual sight isn’t about seeing everything clearly…

Maybe it’s about seeing everything through Him.

So today, I’m asking myself:

What am I actually fixing my eyes on?

The diagnosis… or the Healer?
The uncertainty… or the One who holds my future?
The fear… or the faithful presence of God?

And gently—because this isn’t about pressure or perfection—I’m choosing to shift my gaze.

Again.
And again.
And probably a few more times before lunch.

What would it look like to look at Jesus so long and so closely that He begins to color everything else you see?

Not because your circumstances change overnight—
but because your perspective does.

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Lord,
When my vision feels blurry, and my thoughts feel loud, turn my eyes back to You.

Help me to look full into Your face—not just for a moment, but long enough that Your light lingers in everything I see.

When fear tries to take center stage, gently remind me where to focus.

Give me eyes that don’t just search for clarity—but rest in Your presence.

So that no matter what I face,
I am seeing it all through the light of Your love.

In Jesus’ Name, Amen.