I have a condition called congenital nystagmus.  Congenital meaning I was born with it, and nystagmus meaning my eyes do this crazy, rapid, side to side movement all the time.  They look like they’re vibrating.  My vision (other than being crappy anyway) is not affected–I don’t see objects constantly shaking.  The only real effect is the reaction of people to it, and “people” includes “me.”  For as long as I can remember, an insecurity (add it to the others) has been a side effect of the nystagmus.  I forget about it often, but if someone looks me directly in the eyes for awhile I get nervous, wondering if they’ve noticed and are silently assessing me.  The most annoying thing that ever happened was when I got pulled over by a creepy Birmingham cop for having an expired license plate.  Dude turned his siren on like we were in East LA and followed me into the Andrews Fitness Center parking lot.  A couple of minutes into his reprimand, he paused and asked if I had been drinking or doing drugs. It took all the restraint I had not to reply, “Do you seriously expect me to workout without a shot of vodka and a line of coke?”   He explained that my eye movement looked like that of someone who was drunk or high.  I assured him I was neither and slid further down in my seat, avoiding the looks of other gym-goers who were surveying the Cops-esque scene (flashing lights included).

As with most things in life, I consider myself greatly afflicted with this and various trials until God breaks in and sets me straight.  And New York is a good place to get set straight.  With eight million people crammed around me on this island, I am bound to run into people with all sorts of (real) afflictions.  And I’m especially amazed and humbled anytime I pass a blind person, walking with a seeing eye dog or, usually, one of those long red canes.  On my way home from work today, I was busy writing the text “I hate this day” when I heard the tapping of one such cane on the sidewalk near me.  As I approached the NO WALK sign ahead, I heard the blind man ask someone next to him, “Can I go yet?”  In an instant, bratty kids and slacker students vanished from my mind and I wondered how I would handle having to put my fate in someone else’s hands every day.  Then I realized there was past–and present–precedent that answered that question for me.  And that I need to work on it.  Because that’s exactly the point of my faith.

My eyes can see, but they’re not anywhere near perfect.  Yet I put so much faith in them that you would think they allow me to see around corners and through time.  I go by what I see, which is like trying to describe the Grand Canyon after looking at it through a pinhole.  The truth is, I can’t see jack.  Not compared to the one who sees everything.  And a cane will only get me so far.  What I need–what faith is–is letting someone else be my eyes.