Men as Trees

Something in my heart switched off a few days ago, and I just can't feel anything right now. It’s almost as though the glut of emotions over the past few weeks—toward God, toward my friends, toward my family—has just saturated my heart. I cannot hold one more tear (of joy, sadness, or any commixture of the two). The puzzling thing is that I can’t seem to release them either. Suspended. Frozen. There’s something in front of me that I cannot see.

I'm going through the motions of interacting with people, of praying, of studying Scripture, and yet everything is wearisome. I feel restrained or sedated, or somehow reduced to an unresponsive state. There’s something in front of me that I will not see.

I think that I'm a little bit afraid to hope now. It's been five weeks and I still (for all practical purposes) can't walk. I have no diagnosis, no treatment, and no clear path to a sustainable lifestyle. People assume that things are "getting back to normal" for me, but normal is not yet in view. There’s something in front of me that I haven’t yet seen.

Like the blind man, who had received Christ's healing touch and yet whose vision remained distorted, "I see men as trees, walking." I am not blind, yet I hardly see. I am not walking in despair; neither am I walking in faith. In the face of the indistinct, I am tempted to rely on what is most clear—the weakness of my limbs, the limits of my stamina—and stand warily where I am. Jesus, touch my eyes and restore my sight—that I may see you clearly and see myself and my circumstances in your light.