ALL THE LIGHT WE DO SEE [T, 2-22-22]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

Ray Judd was a distant cousin of my mother. Ray was a judge, which I thought rather neat. He was “Judge Judd.” That could be happily confusing. Even at twelve, I loved language play.

We lived in the country, without modern conveniences, like in-door plumbing and air-conditioning, but one hot summer night, Ray and his wife, Dorothy, made the trip to have supper at our house.

Yes, we were poor and non-convenienced, but in the summer we ate well, because of our huge garden, and chickens that sacrificed their eggs and their lives for us. And Mother was a good cook. It was worth the drive and the sweating.

Ray and Dorothy did not come alone, of course, because they couldn’t drive. Both were blind from birth. So their two tall, handsome, late-teen sons, Russell and Donald, were with them. Russell was the eyes for their mother, guiding her through our yard and into the house and onto a chair. At table, he filled her plate and told her where each item was. Donald did the same for their father.

From the time the boys were little, they had just fallen into that routine. Russell was the interpreter for their mother, and Donald for their father. They interpreted the world of sight to those blind parents. I was fascinated by that.

My father was almost blind, and Mother saw the world so differently from others that she needed an interpreter. I was only twelve when the Judds came to our house, but I already felt that I was responsible for interpreting for my parents. I wanted to know how Russell and Donald did it, and so well, so seamlessly. Could I do that?

Of course, my parents wanted to know how two blind people managed to raise two children, and do it so well. But that was old-hat to Ray and Dorothy. They just brushed it off. “It got easier when they could talk,” Dorothy said, “because they tattled on each other.” Russell and Donald pointed fingers at each other, and Dorothy said, “I can see you,” which got a good laugh from everyone, especially those boys, but I wasn’t quite sure where the funny was. Being an interpreter for the blind seemed rather overwhelming to me.

I’m sure Mother must have kept in touch with Ray and Dorothy in some way after that, but I didn’t ask her about them, or those impressive sons. I was starting the teen years. I had so much “me” to interpret. Then I became a preacher. I had so much “you” to interpret. Then I got married, and had children. I had so much “us” to interpret.

I’ve thought often, though, about that one night, seeing those boys interpreting the world of sight to their parents. I began, even then, to realize that we are all blind in some ways. We need people who can interpret to us the world we cannot see. And we need to interpret all the light we do see, to others.

Physical sight often fades in old age, but we still see light that others do not, and the world needs our interpretations.

John Robert McFarland

Since I like coincidental numbers [see my column on the odometer of my first car turning up 55555.5 miles] I should make something of this being 2-22-22, but… I’ve got nothin’.