It was the first real Multiple Sclerosis symptom that emerged: I went blind in one eye.
But it wasn’t an immediate sort of thing—total, instant blindness. It was much more a creeping sort of progression. At first, it felt like there was a light film over my eye, something I couldn’t quite rub away. Then colors started to fade. Finally, objects disappeared altogether. After some weeks, I couldn’t see anything at all from the one eye but a big dark blob of nothing.
The first eye doctor, who looked about twelve years old, told me it was nothing to worry about and sent me home with eyedrops. He didn’t examine me very thoroughly.
The second eye doctor was much more comprehensive and made the diagnosis: deep in my brain, my poor optic nerve was under attack.
The whole experience brought sharply to mind my real vision, my spiritual eyes. Those eyes of the heart that see into eternity—because this faculty can be lost too, and in much the same way.
When Jesus says, “Many . . . desired to see what you see, but did not see it,” He is reminding me that I do not have to wait like generations before me; the Savior is with me now. But I sometimes find myself asking, do I really see what I see?
That is, have I allowed my Christian vision to slowly, carelessly drift into a gray fog? Have I become blasé about the miracle and mystery that is the Holy Mass, or do I attend with a true awareness of what is taking place? When I receive absolution, do I receive it in the full, merciful radiance of Heaven, or have I become a little careless in my preparation, a little too easily convinced that my sin is nothing to worry about?
When I encounter God’s creation—in the beauties of the earth, in the sacredness of another person—do I yawn with entitlement, or is there room in me for awe?
Christian vision is not gray, colorless, filmy. Belief in all things visible and invisible is sharp and dazzling. It sees eternity everywhere and in everything with perfect clarity and gives thanks to the Revealer.