"Blind as a bat," people said of me as a child, whenever I confused someone walking for a dog or a horse. Glasses finally remedied that, but trouble started in my forties; the day my optometrist used the "B" word. Bifocals.
The top worked well for distance; the bottom for reading books and handwork. But reading my computer screen or music on my piano ledge meant I had to raise my head to peer through the reading lens - a practice that spawned a painful neck condition.
One frustrating day, working at my home office, I inserted the eraser end of a pencil under the bridge of my glasses to raise the lens. It worked, so I made it a habit. Eventually, I couldn't even see the pencil.
After a friend who caught me on a Pinocchio day almost choked on his chuckles, I invested in a pair of prescription reading glasses. They work marvelously - when I remember them.
While working in town one day, I complained to a co-worker that I couldn't bring my computer screen into focus. Only then did I realize the problem: my reading glasses were still on my home office desk, 15 kilometres north.
The pencil trick, I thought, may be a bit too much for any visitors who may wander in. But who would notice a small wad of blue sticky tack between the bridge of my nose and my glasses? No one, surely. I stuck it on my beak, got back to work and forgot it completely.
When a visitor walked into the office, I raised my head and opened my mouth in greeting. Shock crossed her face. Wide-eyed, she scampered backwards and away, holding her mouth.
That's odd, I thought, returning to my computer. A few seconds later, I overheard her speaking to a colleague across the room, gasping as she choked back her laughter. "Why does that woman over there have BLUE CHEWING GUM on the top of her nose?"
If she'd asked me, I'd have told her: I left my glasses at home, and missed my mouth.
Most of us do whatever we (or our optometrists) find necessary to fix our sight. Few of us, though, do what my boss did one day. "Kathleen," he asked, "Please don't be shy to point out my blind spots, whenever you find them.
He wasn't talking about his eyes. Nor that spot just out of reach of his car's rear-view mirror. With rare wisdom, he had long ago recognized that pride keeps most of us from seeing our own flaws of behavior and attitude. The things that are as visible to others as my pencil and blue wad of sticky tac - and far more dangerous. To fix those, we need outside help.
Better the wounds of a friend, than the kisses of an enemy. King Solomon said. Lord Jesus, I say, please send (kind) friends to point out my blind spots. And give me the humility to listen, even when it hurts.
