February 9, 2017
I’ve been told I have complicated eyes. Lately I have given that observation particular thought.
My dad’s mama, our “Mimi,” lost her sight when I was eight or nine. She lived nearly 15 more years in the dark. She had survived two world wars, the Great Depression, birthing 10+ pound babies on the farm, working tirelessly on said farm, catching on fire while working tirelessly in the kitchen of said farm…the list goes on and on. As if all that wasn’t enough, glaucoma claimed her eyes. But she lived without complaint. She was a God-fearing woman who played the piano at her country church even when she couldn’t see the keys.
As I get older, I think more and more of Mimi. I wouldn’t describe her as simple, but she did seem uncomplicated. She knew who she was and in what she believed and who she loved. She may have had an interior life fraught with turmoil, but nothing in her words, her demeanor, or her damaged eyes ever indicated as much. She was from a different generation, of course: private was private. Suffering was godly, as was blessing. Happiness wasn't the goal. Being good, however, was. On this, her sight was clear.
My thoughts turn to Mimi when I feel ripe with complication: the logistics of life, its emotional wear and tear, the delicate balance between giving and taking, the political and spiritual wars raging. Nothing I see is even a glimpse of what Mimi faced. But what I would give for an ounce of her goodness, her ability to weather a storm.
What I would give for her sight.
Mimi is behind me, just before her vision was completely lost. I'm afraid her last memory of me is with that horrible haircut.
