It is dark; it always was. The lack of sight was something that I brought into the world. Sound and smell colored my life: the creak of our old house and the perfume of my mother’s rose garden.
My dad used to be nice, but by the time my mother died, he had become cold, his voice tone was rough, and his patience was poor. His words were bad, saying, “You are a burden.”
He thought a beggar would suit me, and he arranged my marriage when I was twenty to that man who was a beggar.
I believe I was small and unwanted, and my heart was heavy as I went out to start a new life, not knowing what to do further.
It was a secret wedding, the air heavy with the odor of flowers and the talking of a few guests.
I was in a plain dress, and my hands were shaking as I heard the steady breaths of the groom next to me. He spoke nothing, nor by any token betrayed his feelings, save only when he took my hand and gently closed it.
I clung to that small kindness; he whispered, hoarsely, “I clung to the word ‘I am here.'” Once the ceremony was over, we visited his home, a little building; the air was warm with the scent of bread.
Taking me by the arm, he said, “Welcome,” and took me to a chair; his voice was so kind it calmed my fright.
What kind of guy is he? I wondered, and my heart grew wondering, though it was dark.
He was kind, leading me around until I was oriented, telling me about the room, the comfortable sofa, and the squeaky table.
You are home now, and so I say you are a piece of luck, and I am glad of it, but you look like the beggar my father talks about.
My father says you look like a genteel person because you are so clean. Simple food he made, and so steady was his hand that he set a plate before me, and the smell of hot soup made me glad.
“You will be safe here,” he would tell me, and I supposed it was so; my heart melted in me. I would feel his arm, feel he was strong, and feel kindness was a flame in my black space. Why have you married me?” I questioned, and my voice was shy.
He hesitated and replied, “Because I saw you.” I treasured his words, and it was a puzzle I never could figure out.
It was a cold night, I could not sleep, and the house was silent. On the phone, I heard his voice, low to be sure, but strong, with the soft tones I was accustomed to.
“See that the deal goes through,” said he, his words stern and assured, like one that had power. My pulse quickened.
Who is he? I sat quietly, and I listened to him talk of business, programs, and things a beggar could never know. “Hello and good morning, sir, and who did you talk to last night?” said I the next day.
He remained silent and said, “Good friend, don’t worry about it.” However, there was a secret in his voice, and I felt scared and hopeful at the same time that I did not know who I was getting as a husband.
A few days afterwards, he sat me down, warming me with his hand. “No,” said he, as steady as he could, “not a beggar, the son of a favorite, but I took an easy life to live honestly.”
My heart went round, and my breath stopped. Why did you not tell me? In a shaking voice, I asked. His stern voice said, “I wanted you to know me and not my money.
I want to make you see.” He mentioned a surgery, one that could restore sight to me, for which he would pay the expenses.
In unbelief, I thanked him, and tears came as he said, “Then you must see the world.”
It was surgery day, and I was lying in the hospital, and his voice was beside my ear as he said, “I will be here when you wake.”
The doctors worked, and when the bandages came away, light rushed in, at first blurred, then clear.
I glimpsed that tough, kindly face of his; his kindly eyes were made warm and grieved. “You are beautiful,” he smiled, and I guffawed with unshed tears falling, and the world was beheld afresh.
Colors play: the blue sky, green trees, and a slight smile. I loved you, I can see you, my heart was afraid, my heart was full of gratitude, grateful that he loved me, that he had made me a miracle.
We went home, and I passed about our little house and put my hand on the walls, and I saw the flowers he was talking about.
“This is our life,” he said, his hand held tightly in mine, and I knew that he spoke the truth because he looked like a man who chose me, not my father, and his rough words.
I recalled my dad, that cold decision of his to send me out, and the hurt was muffled and dulled by this new sunlight.
Wonder what would have happened had I never met you? In wonder I asked, my heart full. His goodness had made it all different; now I knew God had bigger, better plans than the darkness I had been in.
Several months later, we were in a sunny garden, where spring lilies were in flower and their perfume was in the air. I could see his face, and I could hear his laugh like a song that I saw now.
“You have made me live a new life,” I told him in a low tone of voice, looking at him. He grinned. “You dealt one to me also.”
We had made ourselves a home, basic and yet full of passion, wealth unknown, and heart revealed.
My mind contemplated my father and his decision to evict me, and I found myself at peace, a place to which I belonged. I said to myself, “Sometimes God knows better plans,” and my heart felt light, my eyes were full of hope and love, and I could see ahead.