Forgiving
Visiting the optician is more fun that going to the dentist, but only just. With the optician, I don’t have to look into the wildly staring eyes of a masked man whose mission in life is to shove 40 pounds of stainless steel equipment into my mouth. But there are still bits of the annual eye test I don’t enjoy.
For one thing, these days they shoot you in the eyes. Twice. Admittedly, it’s only a puff of air fired at high speed, but I still have to place my chin on what looks like an instrument of high-tech torture for the shooting. ‘No one likes this part’ smiles the optician, as if this is supposed to make me feel better. It’s painless enough, but it always makes me jump. Asking for a piece of wood to bite on during the test seems pathetic. But I do like the part that follows the shooting: choosing new glasses. If I had the cash, I could be to specs what Imelda Marcos was to shoes.
So it was with mixed feelings that I went to the opticians yesterday. There was no sign on the door that warned me that my day, and in a way, my life, was about to change. Junction moments don’t come with advance notice.
Within moments, I was chatting to Gary, the manager of the store. He sported a broad, genuine smile, and made conversation that went beyond slick sales patter. Inwardly I made a note to myself: this man is likeable. Talking with him was a pleasure.
Our nattering about optic fields of vision and designer frames gradually dried up. I asked him how he got into the eyesight business. He paused for a moment, seemingly weighing up whether or not to get into his story.
Married with two adult sons, Gary had been a high school teacher, and a sports coach. His eldest son (also his best friend) was a keen cyclist. An oncoming driver had fallen asleep at the wheel and ploughed into his son, killing him instantly. Gary had abandoned his teaching career, and he and his wife relocated to Colorado to be with his younger son. He’d taken a job in an optician’s clinic. This was impressive parenting. But there was much more to come.
Gary went on to tell me how he’d gone to the criminal trial of that slumbering driver – a young man of about the same age as his dead son. He’d pleaded for leniency with the judge. Everyone makes mistakes, Gary said. No drugs or alcohol were involved. Ruining that young driver’s life wouldn’t bring his son back. The judge, stunned, had been lenient.
But then Gary told me how he and his wife had befriended the reckless driver. Not only had they forgiven him, but the two families had become close. And now he talked with obvious pride about the man who killed his beloved boy: ‘He’s going into the air force, and training to be a pilot’, he beamed, genuinely delighted.
I struggled, unsuccessfully, to keep tears back. I wanted to know his secret. How does someone forgive so magnificently? ‘It’s my faith’, he smiled. Gary is a Christian. Without any threat or clumsiness, he asked me if I was a follower of Jesus too.
Grace shone through, not just in the details of Gary’s story, but also in his telling of it. There was no overplay, no sensationalism, just a matter of fact miracle. And he didn’t attempt to gloss over the pain: ‘I still cry every day’ he smiled, blinking rapidly, perhaps preventing more weeping.
Heroes make hard choices: they cry, but refuse to allow their tears to blind them. They refuse to stop loving, they don’t give up on giving, and won’t let their lives be preoccupied with their own pain. And in giving grace, they find an endless supply of it. The oil doesn’t run dry.
Thanks Gary. I met you because I needed a shot in the eyes, and some new lenses. But since bumping into you, I see things – and life – much more clearly.