| Sunny Side Up Jan. 15, 2003 �2003, Kathleen Gibson Faith and laughter, the best lenses of all I�m severely lense-dependent. Losing my glasses is one of my worst fears. It�s never happened, but I misplace them sometimes. After my last bath they weren�t on the toilet seat nor the back of the tank. Not on the cupboard either, nor at the tub�s edges. Nowhere, seemingly. The cat and dog were no help, and the Preacher was out. I wandered about in towel and tizzy-circles for a good fifteen minutes; groping, panicking. I found them finally, while running my hands over the chrome bath caddy. They�d blended in perfectly. Greedy for sight, I shoved them on my face. Every fuzzy line came into focus. It never fails. But it did once, for a while. It happened that the Preacher�s shirt lost a button. He came to me, shirt, button, thread and needle in hand. Cornered, I sat down, tore off a length of thread, held up the needle and aimed for its eye. The thread surveyed the air like a cobra�s head. No strike. Once more I tried. �There�s no eye on this dratted needle,� I spouted. But I knew the truth. This old gray mare, she just �aint what she used to be�! I put the needle near the tip of my nose and lowered my chin till it nearly touched my chest. Peering over the top of my glasses, I found that the needle sprouted an eye quicker than you could say �bifocals�. That little coping technique saw me through another two years of middle-aged vision, much to my husband�s amusement. �Bifocals,�said my optometrist, last winter. �Oh, all right,� said I. The Preacher laughed. �Bifocals,� his optometrist told the Preacher recently. �Book�em,� I said, sensing retribution in the wings. The other day he was seated on the couch, testing his new lenses. �Whoa!� he said, long and slow. �Whoa� what?� I asked. He patted the couch beside him. �Sit down. Lean back.� I did so. �Now do this,� he commanded, and began slowly to shift his head up and down, staring out the window all the while. I tried it. On the upswing, the trees across the street went from clear to semi-clear to downright fuzzy. Coming down, they reversed. It was more exciting than a fair ride. Swirly stomach and all. �We never need to go out for excitement again,� he pronounced solemnly, head on the backward swing. Then we laughed till we cried. I left him there, just waving his beard up and down, up and down, and saying �Whoa.� Enjoying his own poor vision for a change. When I think about getting old, it�s not the gradual physical decline I fear. Know what I dread most? Forgetting about moments like that. Losing the laughter. The ability to poke fun at my own weaknesses�and my husband�s too. Faith and laughter. It�s the pair of lenses I depend on most. They help me see life clearly. Lord, don�t ever let me lose those. I love your words....write me at [email protected] |