The days after surgery feel strangely suspended, don't they?, as though the world has been wrapped in gauze and you are waiting, waiting for the mist to lift. One eye works by faith in the surgeon's skill; the other gropes in half-light, asking whether healing is really underway. It is a tender, anxious watch. I want to sit with you in it for a moment, not to hurry you past it, but to remind you of something sure.
Your Lord is not far from a dim room. He never did despise the company of those who could not see clearly. Think how many blind men felt His fingers on their eyelids, a touch so gentle, so unembarrassed by weakness. He did not stand at a distance and shout healing; He came close, put His own hand upon the trouble, and was not in a fluster to be done with it. That same Jesus knows the intricate, fragile work that has been done behind your eye. He knows the days of stillness, the flickers of light, the moments when you wonder if things will ever sharpen again. And He is not impatient with your asking. You have come pleading His name, and that is the right address.
But here is a comfort deeper still. While you wait for earthly sight to settle, there is a seeing that never clouds. The eye of the soul can fix itself upon Christ now, however dim the print of your Bible, however watery the light. You are not shut out from the one thing needful. The Lord is not a fair-weather companion, only good for the days when the sun is high and everything is plain. He walks with us when the path feels uncertain and the landmarks are blurred. In fact, I have often found that He shows His face more clearly to those who have learned to look for Him in the dark. The physician Luke tells us that the power of the Lord was present to heal, and that power is a healing power, not a scolding one, not a harsh one. He does not break the bruised reed, and a retina still mending is a bruised reed indeed.
So do not measure His care by the speed of your recovery. The quiet days, the slow convalescence, the careful shielding of light, these are not waste. They are the workshop of His kindness. He took Peter’s fevered mother-in-law by the hand and lifted her up, and then, immediately, she rose and ministered to them. Healing and service came together. But notice: He took her by the hand. There was a contact, a personal meeting, before any strength returned. Your present stillness is not a void to be endured; it is a place where that hand can hold you steady. Let it hold you.
And when your eyes are fully open again, and I trust they shall be, you will not merely go back to the old round of things. You will carry with you a newer, softer gratitude. Those who have tasted the Lord’s healing often become the tenderest servants. The world will seem to have a fresher glory, as though the Master had wiped a dusty pane. Perhaps the first clear sight you have will fall upon some small mercy, a cup of tea, a familiar face, the green of a leaf, and you will feel a rush of praise that no sermon ever taught you. That will be His doing, too.
Shall we ask Him together?
Lord Jesus, You who opened blind eyes with a touch and calmed anxious hearts with a word, draw near to Your child in this watchful hour. Let the healing work begun by human skill be perfected by Your own gracious power. Steady what quivers. Quiet what fears. Let the eye of faith see You standing near, full of pity, mighty to save. And whether sight returns swiftly or lingers, let the soul be bathed in the light of Your countenance, which is better than life. We entrust this dear one to You, Body and spirit, now and forever. Amen.