What happens when your nearsighted buddy says that “God works in mysterious ways” and decides to stop wearing glasses for good? That’s the premise of this sharp and headlong story, which follows our glasses-less protagonist on his bumbling journey to find out whether it’s really true that “the universe responds to intention.”
Happy fall to our readers, especially those who don’t have 20/20 vision,
The Editors
I always admired my friend Greg. And never more so than nine months ago, when he made a life-altering proclamation on New Year’s Day.
Greg had lost his eyeglasses amidst the festivities of the prior evening. That next afternoon, as we sat rooted to the couch in Greg’s apartment—in a state of groggy meditation that could be confused for two Yogis achieving transcendental enlightenment, if not for Unsolved Mysteries on the TV and the vapors of vodka leaching through our skin—my friend adopted a new philosophy, masquerading as a New Year’s Resolution.
“Last night was the best time of my life,” Greg said.
“Really? What part?” I asked.
He stared back at me with one long blink, offering no specific recollections.
I asked him if his favorable impression had anything to do with our friend Matt’s scalding-hot sister, who, at midnight, mentioned that Greg looked nice without glasses, and gave him a peck on the cheek.
Without answering, he moved on to his next assertion: “God works in mysterious ways,” he said. And in the same breath, “The universe responds to intention.”
Rather than search for the lost pair of glasses, or replace them, he resolved to stop wearing corrective eyeglasses altogether. He would forgo contact lenses, too, I should clarify, lest you think Greg is the type to skirt his own virtue on a technicality.
I didn’t ask if his new outlook had anything to do with the dog-eared copy of The Secret on his coffee table or The New Testament which had appeared alongside it since the last time I visited; I still assumed it was about Matt’s hot sister.
Though when he concluded that God had made him with inferior eyesight for a reason, I did remind him of the game he showed me on the playground in first grade, the one where he would time himself on how long he could stare at the sun without blinking. He merely turned his head away from Unsolved Mysteries to look out the window—only a thin crack of light glowing at the edge of the unfurled blinds—and said, “I guess some things aren’t meant to be seen right away.”
Before I left his apartment that day, my friend vowed to prove his faith by living gratefully with his God-given myopia—an even stronger demonstration, he claimed, because the fix was within his reach. And he predicted that his mind and body would follow where his heart led, by fixing his eyesight naturally, over time.
—
Greg later confided in me that he almost gave up one month into his pledge. Life had become so difficult without his corrective lenses. Beyond arm’s length, everything was blurry. Meanwhile, he chanced to find his glasses one week after making his pious promise, and the temptation to wear them again nearly overwhelmed him. But, as he explained, he had found them only by feeling around in nooks and crannies where he never would have thought to look with his eyes. And so, he persevered with his vision-impaired venture.
Then one day at work, as he lay on the itchy carpet of his office building, cursing himself for an especially injurious fall—wherein he had tripped over a wire and brought three computer monitors crashing to the ground on top of his own body—a woman came along to pick him up.
Greg had passed this woman at the office, maybe every single day, but always from a distance. And from such a distance, even with his corrective lenses, he had never regarded the figure in muted-color suits as anything but the shape of a nameless colleague. But as she guided him to his feet that day, he truly saw her for the first time. Her plump lips, the humble curve of her nose, and the compassion of her sapphire-blue eyes were striking in their clarity.
He went on to describe their relationship as the deepest and most gratifying of his life. “No offense, mate,” he added for my benefit. None taken. I was happy for him, and I leaned closer so he could read as much on my face.
—
Though Greg’s eyesight did not improve in those months after New Year’s Day, there had been other benefits to his naturally nearsighted life. Which he took as a sign that he was on the right path. In particular, savoring intricate beauty he had once ignored: individual brushstrokes, the folds of a flower, even the details stamped into ordinary pocket change. His greatest appreciation, though, was reserved for his new love.
For those of our friends who were skeptical, worried, even, about how quickly his new relationship was developing, Greg would respond with a newfound blithe confidence that seemed to have developed at the same pace: “I only have eyes for her.” Ultimately, she must have felt the same, as she sat by the side of his bed so many days, quietly watching him for signs of consciousness while holding his colorless hand.
We know the details—the left turn he shouldn’t have made and the van that struck the passenger side of his Chevy Impala with such force that the car flipped and rolled twice down the hill on the side of the road (thrice, by one witness account), while his glasses were still encased in the bottom drawer of the one bathroom in his apartment. What no one can tell us is when he will wake up.
If I thought he could hear me, I would have told my friend by now how much I had admired his faith, his courage, his newfound perspective, and especially his nearsighted love. And I truly had, until I walked in today and saw the empty chair by his bed, with a note from her on the table, held in place by the weight of his eyeglasses.
-30-
A sugar salesman on sabbatical, Jimmy lives with his loving family in Grand Rapids, MI, where he spends his days reading, writing, or subjecting his children to his latest board game prototype. His work can be found in publications such as Bright Flash Literary Review, Spank the Carp, Apocalypse Confidential, The Avalon Literary Review, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, and The Other Journal. Read more and connect with Jimmy on his website www.jimmylis.com.