We felt and tried to share God’s grace every day.
Baking heat, no moving air. We had to put up dark curtains over the “windows” in this cinder block school with a metal roof so Jon can read the auto-refractor.
School children out of class hang on to what windows are uncovered, chattering at what they see.
A line outside drifts beyond our sight. A dozen people sit in beat up desks, the women with their ankles neatly crossed. The linea de espera–waiting line–to see our leader John and get the vision diagnosis is six people deep.
Two people chat with the registrars in rapid Spanish. Four people stand near the door and are handed papers with a small cut-out box; we have to figure out which is their dominant eye.
And Hooper shines a flashlight onto a sign to test distance for a young woman giggling behind her fingers.
The noise. It never ends.
I can feel the sweat slipping down my back and wicking out of my blue aerobics shirt. I’m helping Jon, who is running the autorefractor.
An ageless man, his face a mahogany brown with furrowed lines from working in the sun, stands beside me unblinking.
He pushes his ballcap off his forehead and stares straight ahead. Jon has just indicated the top of the machine, “Mira aqui,” look here. He pushes a button and we listen to a beep as the laser scans the man’s eyes.
While I wait for the long beep which signifies we have a good reading, I look at the man wearing clean, worn clothing and high rubber boots and I can feel my eyes soften the way they do when I look at my adorable grandchildren.
I don’t even know what this man’s name is, though I can glance at the card and see: Juan Carlos. All I can think of is how dignified he looks in front of this technologically advanced machine, and what an honor it is to be here to serve him.
Lunch was long ago, over three hundred people already have been seen today. We’re weary on the fourth day of serving, but this is what prayerful grace looks and feels like.
Many people prayed for months about this trip; folks back home in Santa Rosa continue to pray for us. The Holy Spirit moves where he wills, and bestows blessings and grace upon grace.
My daughter spent three weeks this summer working at Mt. Gilead Christian camp and shared a talk she heard with us the tired evening of day two.
One day at devotions, the Mt. Gilead camp director Steve Todd reminded the counselors:
“You may have done something hundreds of times, interacted with hundreds of kids this summer. But for each kid, this is their first time encountering this experience at camp. Remember this: it’s their first time.”
I thought of that as the people inched forward, some anxious about standing before this beeping machine as Jon bobbed and weaved trying to get the best reading. Would it hurt? What was happening?
When I had a moment, I tried to explain in my limited Spanish. “The machine reads the shape of your eye and tells us if you need glasses and what kind. It doesn’t hurt.”
Sometimes the machine got crochety, or the batteries died. Sometimes Jon couldn’t get a good reading. “Abra sus ojas mas,” we would say, imitating what it looks to like to open your eyes wide.
They smiled and relaxed when he told them, “Okay.”
I scribbled down the number and sent them to the next line. Occasionally I’d laugh: “Su ojas son joven,” telling hard working men in their fifties that their eyes were still young. They always grinned back.
Prayerful grace. My feet ached, my legs were tired, my eyes started to hurt and it was just so sagging hot and mugg
And yet.
Their first time.
I could actually feel God’s grace extended: “My children. Ones I love. Be my hands and feet. Serve them.”
It was an honor and a privilege.
Thanks be to God and his grace.
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