That time again,
when little irritants
water his eyes and
blur his vision.
When my waiting hands
hold drops
that would sting but renew,
above lids squeezed tightly shut,
he hating
every moment.
And how like me he is.
The remedy for my
broken vision
wounds my flesh,
raises my hackles,
threatens self-love.
So I pull back
from the painful Truth that would
cleanse,
renew strength,
give comfort,
bring peace.
I turn my face away from
convicting thoughts,
and slap at faithful hands
that would wound to heal.
Instead, I plead my case
in the internal
examination room.
My vision blurred,
Eyes filled with tears
of self-pitying grief,
I pray that they will work
instead.
Rather than welcome
the drops that sting,
Or bless the patient hands
that hold them,
Or thank the loving Physician
who provided them.
And strangely,
like my son,
I find,
those times
when I allow the Medicine
to work,
the pain stops.
And in the moments
I allow my flesh to die,
God is glorified.
