(Im)Perfect Eyes

When I was six or seven, I used to curl up on the scratchy brown couch, the television turned to the local Christian network, and I would watch as the televangelist laid hands and healing came.

I’d close my eyes, the broken eyes as I’d come to see them, and I’d pray that when they would be opened, they would be healed. I wouldn’t need the glasses, words would appear clear, I’d be better than I was a moment before.

The eyes always opened, and each time, the healing didn’t come.

My childlike faith wasn’t shattered, but there was always the question – why not me? Why didn’t God reach down His hands, touch my eyes, and let me see? Was my faith too small, minute, or my words not enough?

I sat outside under the stars tonight, as I always do every evening I can. The stars up in the sky were blurred, the astigmatism letting light be reflected in different directions. The stars weren’t perfect to my eyes. But even to my imperfect eyes, they were glorious.

I thought of those prayers uttered decades ago, unanswered. Sometimes I think it’s so easy to see what’s wrong instead of looking through the lens of what’s right. God made me. He knit me together, each bone coming together and each limb forming. He knows the number of hairs on my body, even the ones I do my best to destroy. Each curve was His design. The pointy nose? He formed me that way. The heart that feels deeply, that loves hard, the eyes that will never see perfectly but know how to weep? The ones that open wide to what’s behind each gaze? His design.

The hands that swell red and wave with chubby fingers? Those hands He designed to hold.

The laugh that I hide too easily because of its high pitch? He delights in that laugh. 

Those were His design.

I am in awe these days that He is a God who sees,

a God who remembers,

a God who designs.

And sometimes in the moments when I pray for change to come, and when I pray for my problems to find their answer, I set my sights on what is wrong and miss out on what is right. God. The Designer. The God who says He works all things together for my good. God who says,

“I see you. I am with you. I uphold you with My righteous right hand.

You are not forgotten. 

I choose you. I have chosen you, and I will keep choosing you. Over and over again. In your worst moments,

and in your best,

in the moments you choose Me, and the moments you turn your face away.

You are chosen,



and seen.”

And in the blurry sight of the eyes His hands formed, I watch the stars He hung and named. I am reminded of who He says I am, and tears form in the broken – yet perfect – eyes. Because He’s found in each imperfection, for it is I who call them that.

He, the great I am, calls me chosen.

And I choose to listen to that name, instead.