I have faith the bus will come. I’d prefer something tangible. Faith is useful; I just dislike putting it to the test.
I’m waiting on the 8:18. It’s late today. Yesterday it was on time. But then, yesterday it was not raining.
Randy wedges his noggin between my knees. My raincoat keeps his head drier than the rest of him. My shirt feels moist under the coat. I’m learning the difference between water-resistant and water-repellent.
Each minute I wait increases the odds the bus will arrive. Or is my reasoning faulty? My faith in the 8:18 wanes as my faith in the 8:33 waxes. Or is my faith faulty?
I must look pathetic. Not so much that any driver offers me a ride. Drowned rat pathetic. Eighty pounds of wet dog pathetic.
Mom would say I’ll catch my death of cold. I can face death; I’m a White Sox fan. It’s sitting around all day with wet feet that I can live without.
Dad would say, “A little water won’t kill ya.” He’d be dry when he’d say this. But here’s the point: the rain is not what’s bothering me. It’s the whole blind thing. The unfairness of it all sticks in my craw.
Some of my brethren consider blindness merely an inconvenience. I disagree. Having your car in the shop is an inconvenience. Waiting for the cable guy is an inconvenience. My blindness threatens my spiritual serenity and my physical safety. Shall I struggle with shame that my blindness manifests so far beyond the trivial?
Rain and a late bus are inconvenient. Blindness is a test of faith, a test of endurance. It’s barely 8 in the morning and already I am weary.