I'm not the only one here wearing glasses, am I? I didn't think so. There are quite a lot of us wearing glasses, and probably a few more wearing contact lenses. But there was a time in my life when I was the only one wearing glasses. I was in the second grade then. For weeks I had been squinting at the chalkboard and making mistakes when I had to copy things down. My teacher suggested that my parents have my eyes checked. They made arrangements for an appointment, but we would have to go to a nearby city and there would be a wait of several weeks.

During that time, my teacher moved me to the front row of seats; she had always given more attention to the kids who were struggling along. She went out of her way to make sure I could see what she was doing. She seemed especially concerned about how I felt, and worried that I might get a headache or that my eyes might hurt. I rather liked the attention I was getting. Except for the mistakes in my copying, I was doing well in school. Now the teacher was also stopping by my desk several times a day. I enjoyed being fussed over, and I really could see better from the front row.

The day came for my appointment with the eye doctor. Sure enough, he discovered that my vision was poor and he prescribed glasses. I begged and pleaded with him not to give me glasses. I assured him I could see fine from the front row. I promised I would tell my parents if I ever really had trouble. I even resorted to crying, wailing out that the other kids would call me names. The doctor just patted me on the shoulder and told me I'd get used to glasses in no time. I went out sniffing, sure that my brief moment of glory in the second grade was about to end.

When the glasses finally came, I was miserable. The teacher moved me back to my old seat and stopped hovering over me. The other kids called me "Four-eyes." Worse, it took me days to get used to my corrected vision. Steps became traps for me, and I stumbled over obstacles I thought I was avoiding. My vision was now perfect -- but I hated it. I preferred being blind. The adjustments I was having to make were just too hard for a 7-year-old. It was easier to be blind.

Today, of course, I am profoundly grateful my sight was corrected early. I realize how lucky I was that my teacher was alert enough to spot my problem, that my parents cared enough to listen and get me to a doctor, that they had the money to pay for glasses, that there was a doctor available; the list could go on and on. Sadly, as an adult, I know that glasses can't be taken for granted. There are people everywhere who don't know they need them, or can't afford them, or have no doctor to prescribe them. They would have been indignant at my seven-year-old attitude that I'd rather not have glasses. It's never better to be blind when you can see. Blindness is something anyone would seek to escape.

Or would they? As I read Mark 10:46-52, I wondered. There was blind Bartimaeus, sitting by the side of the road, listening to the thud of feet passing, the click of harnesses, the murmurs of the crowd that surrounded Jesus. He felt the hot sun on his face, smelled the complex scents of crowd and animals and baking ground. Perhaps he tasted the salt of his own sweat as he sat there. But he saw nothing. It had been years since he saw anything but darkness. I wondered if that darkness had not become familiar to him, taken for granted, comforting even. I wondered how much he had adopted the identity of "blind Bartimaeus," how much his blindness had become a part of his self-understanding. I wondered whether Bartimaeus had really wanted, all along, to see.