Eye Exam Insight

I hadn’t planned to go with Betsy (my wife) to her eye exam but, at the last minute, I thought it may give us an opportunity to spend some time together before her teaching responsibilities resumed.

As we arrived at the ophthalmologist’s office, Betsy checked in and I waited. Of course, having gotten to know a couple of the nurses during previous visits, there was the usual exchange of friendly greetings. But the conversation I was soon to have with Maria (not her real name) was one I did not anticipate—especially in the public domain of an office environment.

With the completion of Betsy’s checkup, she signaled me to come to the desk behind the waiting room door as she received final instructions from the nurse, Maria. We had known Maria for a couple of years (though in the world of “twice-a-year-checkups,” that isn’t necessarily saying a lot!) and had come to know her as a very gracious and energetic Latin lady in her late 30s to early 40s. This time was no exception. The conversation that would soon ensue, however, exceptional would surely be.

As Betsy was finalizing payment with the bookkeeper, I turned to Maria and asked simply, “How have you been, Maria? How’s the family?”

“Well, Carmen, my family consists of my sister and four kids who live in Boston.” As she began to answer, she got up from her desk chair and approached where I was standing at the end of the billing counter. “I had lived with my mother, but she died about a year ago. Depression…she had depression, clinical depression…and she committed suicide. I was in the home when she did.”

“I am so sorry to hear that, Maria, so very sorry,” was my only reply.

By now Maria was standing directly across from me. She continued the conversation in a lower voice: “This has been a very difficult year for me. But I continue to have faith. I have been a Christian for about ten years; I must believe He has a reason for all of this.”

I could only imagine the questions Maria had asked—of both herself and of God. In situations of personal loss and tragedy I have found it best not to give some previously-structured answered but, rather, to trust God to grant me both the wisdom and words required for that circumstance and person. And such was, I believe, the case with Maria. In fact, my response to her is not commensurate with how I think I might “typically” response in such circumstances.

“Maria, I would like to suggest there are two key questions in life: ‘Is there a God?’ and, if so, ‘Is He able to be known?’ And, if there is a God, one must wonder why all the pain and suffering and tragedy in the world.” I was about to add some additional thoughts, but Maria interjected.

“I have to believe there is a God—for it gives me hope. I have to confess, my faith has been shaken. But…if there is no God, then there is no hope. So it makes me feel better to believe there is a God.” Her response surprised me, though her thinking was not far from some of the 18th and 19th century philosophers who posited a “leap of faith” into the non-rational or spiritual realm; nothing there could be demonstrated rationally, but it made for a better life. And, of course, our culture today would buy such thinking wholesale. Faith is choosing to believe in that which can’t be proven—often because the perceived benefits of having faith are better than life without those benefits.

Knowing it to be vitally important not to leave Maria with such a baseless hope, I proceeded, albeit gently: “But, Maria, if what the Bible says is true [remember, she had professed to be a Christian], then God wants you to know that He exists and is deeply concerned about you.”

“I don’t have that kind of faith,” Maria responded somberly.

“I appreciate your openness.” I knew, however, I had to explore a bit more deeply, so I queried, “Maria, have you ever investigated the claims of Jesus Christ and what He said about the role He played in making a relationship with God possible?” [Frankly, in looking back now, I am surprised I asked this question—particularly since Maria, herself, had told me that she was a Christian. For some reason I may have begun to question the depth of her understanding of what it meant to be a Christian. Or, could I be so bold as to suggest that it was God directing the conversation in a manner He knew it should continue?]

Quietly, yet sincerely, she responded simply, “No.”

“If what Jesus said was true,” I proffered, “then God was willing to give the life of His Son for you and me. And, if that is true, then I can never doubt His care for me…even if I don’t understand a particular set of circumstances.” Given the location of our conversation, I knew there wasn’t much time left for us to continue talking. So, I asked Maria if she enjoyed reading, to which she enthusiastically responded. I told her that I would send her a book [i.e.—C.S. Lewis’s, A Grief Observed] that would be of encouragement and hopefully offer some insight concerning the questions she was asking.

After obtaining the address to which I should send her book, God seemed to impress on me the importance of driving home His care for Maria. As I was handing her back the pen I had borrowed I remarked, “Maria, I wasn’t even planning to come up with Betsy today; it was a ‘last-minute’ decision. You know, if there really is a God who cares, then I would like to suggest that our conversation here may not have been by accident.”

“You know, Carmen, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

With that remark, our conversation ended.

As Betsy and I discussed my conversation with Maria, it became apparent that God had orchestrated this opportunity. A simple eye exam had provided a window of insight into one of those for whom His Son had died. And, a spiritual diagnosis had begun with two simple questions, “How have you been, Maria? How’s the family?”