Although some physical healing came after Amberle’s first glaucoma surgery, her emotional state deteriorated. She felt like “a worthless blob.”
Nothing we said alleviated her angst. Unfortunately, the follow-up appointments for her surgery indicated that, while the insertion of the tubes would slow down the disappearance of her vision, Amberle had already lost almost eighty-five percent of it. The pain in Amberle’s eyes was much worse now than it had been before the glaucoma surgery, so we agreed to another surgical procedure that promised and ultimately delivered some relief.
Dr. Butler tried to be encouraging. “Time is the best healer.”
I had a love-hate relationship with the word time. In the hospital, Satan had convinced me time was frozen, motionless. That nothing would ever change for Amberle, except perhaps for the situation to worsen. God had proven the opposite, and we needed to remember that. Life always changed. The only thing that never changed was God Himself.
Although she was eager to go back to work and somehow prove her worthiness, Amberle extended her medical leave through October. Hoping that time would indeed heal, Amberle made an appointment with her optometrist.
We hoped Dr. Bank would be able to improve what little of Amberle’s sight remained with another scleral lens. However, he was
disappointingly honest at her appointment.
“The scleral lens will press on the drainage tube. It’s out of the question, Amberle.”
“You mean, because I had glaucoma surgery, I can’t wear a lens to correct the eyesight I have left?”
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Bank said. “It won’t work.” Dr. Bank had worked tirelessly with Amberle over the past few months to make her vision as viable as possible. Now, it looked as if they were at a dead end. Dr. Bank thought for a moment, then looked at Amberle, “There is one thing.”
Amberle and Hunter listened as Dr. Bank described another type of lens known as the PROSE®. “It’s custom-made to the shape of your eye. Perhaps they could work around the location of the tube. I don’t know. I usually don’t recommend it because of the price.” Amberle and Hunter waited. “It costs around twenty-thousand dollars. And there’s no guarantee it will work.”
“But it’s possible, right?” Amberle asked.
Dr. Bank offered a half-hearted nod. “It’s usually not covered by insurance.”
“Been there, done that,” replied Amberle, remembering the uninsured surgeries miraculously paid for by Tricare. “It’s worth a shot.”
Amberle and Hunter researched the PROSE® lens, and after discovering its potential, called Dee and me to talk about it.
“I’ll speak to Tricare, and we’ll make an appointment regardless,” Dee said. “Anything is worth a try.”
Amberle’s case manager at Tricare said the insurance company could provide some small, partial payments for a few of the appointments.
The next available appointment for a PROSE® fitting was in three weeks, and throughout the interim, I fought the temptation to hope in human hands rather than heavenly ones. I asked others to pray for us, focusing on a promise found in 2 Corinthians 1:10–11a (NIV): “He has delivered us from such a deadly peril and he will deliver us again. On him we have set our hope that he will continue to deliver us, as you help us by your prayers.”
During the third week of October 2014, I met Amberle in Dallas, and we flew to Houston for the series of appointments. We assumed that since the PROSE® lens was developed specifically for people with corneal anomalies, Amberle’s case would not be too unusual. The doctor’s initial reaction proved us wrong.
“You’re quite the conundrum,” he sighed.
Amberle braved four days of examinations and fittings. When she tried on her custom lens, it eased the pain but did nothing for her vision.
“Maybe I need a stronger prescription,” Amberle said. “What’s the correction now?”
“Correction?” the doctor asked. “You wanted lenses with a correction?”
Somehow, the degree of correction in the lens had not been included in the final paperwork. Over the four-day period, Amberle had seen a myriad of physicians and technicians, and the requirement for a lens that provided both correction and comfort had been changed to comfort only.
“We’ll have to remake your lens with the proper specifications. Of course, we won’t charge you for this first one.”
That’s mighty generous of you. “We leave town today at four o’clock,” I protested.
“I’m sorry. We’ll mail it to you via Fed Ex, and your optometrist can check the fit.”
Twenty-thousand dollars of frustration.
When Dr. Bank fitted Amberle with the lenses in Dallas a few days later, they were both pleased. Amberle had less pain and was able to see shapes and shadows. This was a big deal. Shapes and shadows aren’t darkness.
We continued to fight for every bit of vision possible. We thought we were doing the right thing, and in a way, we were, but years later, we realized we weren’t just fighting blindness; we were fighting God. We tried to take control of the situation by doing something—anything—to get rid of the difficulty and, as so often happens, our actions created an idol. Something we wanted and we worshiped more than God. Healing.
No, we didn’t toss our jewelry into a fire to make a golden calf like the Israelites (Exodus 32), and I didn’t tell my husband to sleep with my slave in order to start a family (Genesis 16), but because we couldn’t figure out how God could ever work through this situation, we tried to fix it on our own—through prayers, surgeries, exams, and experiments.
Mind you, nothing is wrong with any of these solutions. God uses them all. The problem was our attitude. We craved Amberle’s healing more than we craved God. At least, I did. I wanted easy, not hard. And yet, God had already answered our prayer and provided an answer to every question, but I was too busy worshiping the idol of ability to see it.
Late one Monday afternoon, Amberle decided to walk to Whole Foods for a snack. Tired of being on disability, frustrated by her reliance on others, and desiring independence more than food, Amberle knew this twenty-minute walk—her first journey alone since being diagnosed with glaucoma—would be a major accomplishment. Because of the incoming clouds, the Dallas weather was cooler than usual, and Amberle decided it was a perfect opportunity to navigate the outside world using her new white cane. Amberle and Kathryn shopped at Whole Foods several times a week, so Amberle knew the route well. She just had to interpret the directions and the distance in terms of walking rather than driving. She’d take a left out of the front gate, then after a few blocks, another left on . . . what was the name of that street? She couldn’t remember right now but knew she’d recognize it when she came to it. From there, it was a straight shot, no more than half a mile. The shopping center was on the right, just before the Central Expressway.
The wind blew Amberle’s hair as she left the safety of the apartment complex. Hearing thunder in the distance, she walked briskly. The five-minute drive couldn’t be more than a twenty-minute walk. Exiting the apartment complex, Amberle turned left. When she reached the third intersection, she squinted to read the street sign but couldn’t make out any of the letters. The location didn’t look familiar, so she continued a block further before turning left. Cars whisked by, and the rain fell gently. Amberle didn’t mind. It was good to be on her own, even if she was a little wet.
A clap of thunder startled her, and she wished she had her umbrella. When she stepped off the curb to cross the street, her foot slipped on some gravel. Amberle braced her fall with her free hand and landed butt-first on the street. She scrambled to the safety of the sidewalk. Blood trickled down the back of her leg, and her hand ached. Looking for a place to regroup, Amberle realized she was in an unfamiliar area, and she had no idea how to get to Whole Foods or her apartment. Amberle took out her phone. The battery had less than five percent of its charge left. Kathryn was at work and Hunter was at least half an hour away. She called Hunter’s number. It went directly to voicemail. After a deep breath to calm herself, she tried again. Nothing.
She uttered a two-word prayer: “God, please.”
A few minutes later, her phone vibrated. It was Hunter. “Hey, I saw you called a couple of times, so I—” Fearing her battery would die, Amberle interrupted. “I . . . I took a walk, and I don’t know where I am. I think I’m lost. Can you come get me?”
“Where are you?”
“I told you. I don’t know. Please, help me.”
“Can you make out anything in the area? A store? A street sign?”
“No, I was walking to Whole Foods, and I got lost. And my phone’s about to die.”
“OK. Stay where you are. I’ll send someone to get you. I’m more than an hour away, but I’ll have someone pick you up.”
Amberle began to cry. “I . . . I’m on a corner.”
“OK. Good. We’ll find you. Just stay where you are.”
Amberle’s screen went dark. Like her world.
She stood on the corner, humiliated and obedient to Hunter’s last words. No one stopped to ask why this person with a white cane was standing in the rain with a bloody leg.
“Really, God?” Amberle fumed under her breath. “Really?”
After about ten minutes, Amberle heard one of the passing cars slow down. The driver honked its horn.
“Am?” It was Ali, a friend of Amberle’s and Hunter’s. “Stay right there,” she shouted over the traffic. “I’m making a U-turn.”
Ali helped Amberle into her car. “Here, use these towels. Let’s get you dry, and I’ll take you home.”
Amberle’s voice quivered. “I’m sorry, Ali.”
“Hey, that’s what friends are for. No problem.”
Ali pulled her car up to the breezeway leading to Amberle’s apartment. “Do you need any help?”
“Obviously, Ali, I do. I do need help, but not right now.” As Amberle got out of the car, her tears blended with the rain trickling down her face. “Thanks, Ali. You’ve helped enough for one day. I can get into the apartment on my own.”
†
When Amberle called us three days later, she sounded pensive. “Mom, Dad, you said you’d support me whatever I decide, right?”
“Of course, honey,” we said together.
“Well, I’ve made a decision.” Amberle spoke slowly as she told us about her experience getting lost in the storm. After she finished, Dee and I groped for words.
“Oh, honey. I can’t imagine.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It scared me, but I think it knocked some truth into me too. For over a year, we’ve fought blindness in every way we could. And I’m grateful for your help. But I’m ready to face reality. I’m tired of trying to be who I was, and I’m ready to be who I am. I’ve signed up for Braille lessons with the Dallas Assistive Rehabilitative Services Department and made an appointment with a specialist from Tarrant County who can help me get the resources I need. I have to start living as a blind person.” Amberle waited for our reaction, but Dee and I were consumed with our own thoughts. “I’m sorry. It feels like I’ve failed, but deep down, I know that’s not true. God didn’t answer our prayer the way we wanted for me to be healed. But I believe He did answer our prayer. With a no.”
Amberle was right. No is a direction—a direction I usually didn’t want to go, but a direction nonetheless. Now, no meant we had to let go of the old to grasp the new. To hang mid-air, waiting for God to send us a trapeze.
“I’ll call the hospital and let them know I won’t be coming back to work.”
With those words, suddenly, I wasn’t just hanging in mid-air. I was spinning out of control. Although they were fully reasonable and somewhat expected, “I won’t be coming back to work” sounded sharp and final. Like a death of dreams.
I remembered something Amberle had shared with me several weeks ago. At the time, we didn’t know what to make of it, but it made sense now. Amberle had been praying for healing when she sensed the Lord saying, “Why do you pray for healing? I offer resurrection.”he wondered if God was chastising her for a lack of faith, so she repented even though it seemed strange to ask forgiveness for praying for healing, especially considering the biblical examples. But now, in light of Amberle’s decision to let go of her desire to serve as a nurse and permit the death of her dream, the words seemed prophetic.
For the believer, death is the door to resurrection—to new life. In 2 Corinthians 1:9 (NIV), Paul exhorts believers, “Indeed, we felt we had received the sentence of death. But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead.” Was God giving Amberle a new direction by using the death of one dream to birth another? Forcing us into faith by solely relying on Him?
Amberle could still study public health, but she would do it with her blindness, not in spite of it. By accepting her disability, she now envisioned her education as a tool to be used by God rather than a stepping-stone to an earthly objective.
Until now, I’d always believed the ultimate demonstration of a person’s faith involved a miraculous event like a supernatural healing or an escape from an impossible situation like David defeating Goliath or Moses at the Red Sea. A remarkable result. Now, I saw something even more amazing—it wasn’t the experience that was the ultimate reward; it was the impetus, the individual’s total reliance on God. Trusting so completely in God’s love, mercy, and grace, the result was almost inconsequential.
I thought of Hebrews 11, the “hall of faith.” Great men and women of God who believed and acted in faith: Abraham, Noah, David, and so many others “who through faith conquered kingdoms, enforced justice, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions” (Hebrews 11:33 ESV). All with storybook endings any believer would envy. But then, at the end of chapter eleven, other heroes of faith are mentioned. Heroes with no names. Heroes who were tortured, imprisoned, impoverished, and afflicted. It wasn’t the result that made them heroes; it was their relationship with God.
I knew Scripture didn’t promise a trouble-free life to believers, but I still expected God to remove this situation. Amberle, however, had come to peace, regardless of the result. It was rebellious, in a way. She refused to allow the situation to dictate her emotions. By refusing to fight, she had won. Amberle found stability not in spite of the storm but because of it.
Over the next few months, Amberle began speaking of her pain as if it was a privilege. She called it “the fellowship of sufferings.”The idea came from Paul’s letter to the Philippians: “That I may know him, and the power of his resurrection, and the fellowship of his sufferings, being made comfortable unto his death” (Philippians 3:10 KJV). Amberle challenged us with her newfound strength, reminding us that “Jesus suffered, so why shouldn’t we?” or saying things like, “I can’t embrace God if I reject His ways.” I’d never seen anyone rely on God like that. Coming from her, the words weren’t trite. They were true.
When hard days came, which was fairly often, Amberle acknowledged the difficulty, the shaking of her faith. But, she said, she wanted to be shaken, so anything not of Christ—frustration, anger, impatience—would be recognized and removed. Amberle was convinced, now more than ever, that even though her calling to be a missionary was probably true, she had twisted it into an idol by focusing more on serving Christ than knowing Him. She would not do that again. Amberle was grieved by the realization of her past mistakes but grateful for God’s grace and whatever future He held for her. Not because of what God would do for her, but simply because He was there. That’s what she had gained in her fellowship of sufferings.
Amberle mourned the loss of her dreams, but she was convinced disability was not a detour. It was the road. A road of surrender and suffering, but still, a road. With that recognition, Amberle could move ahead, living the promise of Isaiah 42:16 (NIV): “I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth. These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them.”