Jan and Gene Eckles with their sons (from top) Jason, Jeff and Joe (who died in 2002).

"Mommy, you're bleeding," gasped Jason, my 7-year-old son. "I'll get some ice." His rapid steps tapped toward the kitchen.

At the age of 31 I'd begun to lose my eyesight to an incurable retinal disease. Within two years, my world became almost completely dark, with just a faint perception of light.

As I'd attempted to vacuum the family room, I'd slammed into a partially open closet door. My head throbbed, and when I touched my forehead, my fingers felt wet and sticky.

Jason returned with a washcloth filled with ice.

"Thanks, honey," I said. "Don't worry. Mommy will be okay." I fought back tears.

My husband, Gene, had suggested I hire someone to help around the house. But I wouldn't let anyone take care of my three sons and my home—that was my job. I wanted to be strong and "in control" for my family—or at least appear to be.

I sought Gene's comfort when I began losing my sight. At first he was generous and solicitous, but I was unaware of his increasing emotional pain and frustration. I wasn't the only one facing an unwanted adjustment.

"We need to talk," Gene announced urgently one day. "Let's take a ride."

I quickly changed clothes, grabbed my purse, and let him walk me to the car. We drove in silence.

"What's going on?" I finally asked.

	My prayers were being answered, though not in the way I'd expected.

With an odd mixture of sadness and indifference, he confessed he was dissatisfied with our marriage. Consumed with caring for our sons and the daunting responsibility of managing our household in the dark, I'd felt no desire or motivation to seek emotional closeness or intimacy with him. When he tried to reach out to me, I didn't notice, and my lack of attention was painful to him. In fact, we were barely communicating. So he'd begun talking to someone at work and found comfort in her listening ear.

I tried to remain numb. But his words felt like physical blows, all the more painful because they came from the one person I'd relied on.

Gene attempted to make me understand. But struggling to cope with my blindness had left me drained of strength and energy. We sought counseling, but were advised simply to get out of a relationship that wasn't working. Meanwhile, my instinct to protect those around me outweighed my need for support. "I'm fine, don't worry," I assured whenever my parents or friends asked how I was doing.

'Do you know what it's like?'
Finally I prayed. I told God how unfair this was, pleading for deliverance from my affliction. But there was no answer. No healing.

Then one day a friend called and asked how I was doing.

"I'm fine," I lied, as usual.

She invited me to her church. "We're having a healing service."

"Really?" I replied with a glimmer of hope.

That evening she drove me to the service, and I continued to attend the church on a regular basis. Though I listened to the Bible verses, they felt ambiguous and irrelevant to me. Still, I hoped God would grant me a miracle if I asked long enough—much like an indulgent grandpa whom I'd never bothered to get to know.

As I sat in the services week after week, I resisted the urge to spring to my feet and scream, "You have no problems compared to me! Do you know what it's like not to see a sunset, or the stars, or your child's smiling face?"

In the midst of my resentment and anguish, a Scripture verse pierced my heart: "Seek first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you" (Matt. 6:33).

I had to make a choice: believe God had a purpose in spite of my circumstances, or dismiss the truth of His Word.

A glimpse of healing
Choosing to give my life fully to Jesus began an incredible change within me. Bible verses were no longer irrelevant, distant concepts. I felt an overpowering sense of freedom and comfort as I opened my eyes to see that life wasn't about me, but about Him.

My prayers were being answered, though not in the way I'd expected. My vision didn't change, but my life did.

God filled my heart with His love. This renewed heart had no room for self-pity, vengeance, or anger. I intentionally changed the way I reacted to situations out of my control, such as the late hours Gene spent in the office. When he came home, I chose to welcome him with a smile instead of bitterness and resentment.

I learned to forgive deep hurts as well as small ones. And that genuine forgiveness helped me make calm and logical decisions about my marriage.

I gave Gene the freedom to stay or leave. If he chose to stay, I knew Christ would heal our marriage. If he left, Christ would fill the void of his absence.

Gene decided to give our marriage a second chance. My trust in God gave me the confidence to set boundaries for our relationship. My healing was slow, but once again the Lord proved faithful. "I waited patiently for the Lord; and He inclined unto me, and heard my cry. He brought me up also out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings" (Ps. 40:1-2).

A heart filled with Christ's peace gives 20/20 vision. I could see where I'd been, and how far I'd come. Gene and I had relied on our limited human wisdom and judgment, as well as that of secular counselors. We had been seeking solutions on a horizontal line, ignoring the need to look vertically to God.

Our first step to wholeness was to pray together. Initially, it was awkward and uncomfortable. We'd never done this before and weren't sure how to begin. We started with the Lord's Prayer. Eventually we began to speak to Him as if He were right there with us. And He was.

Now 22 years later, I no longer view my world, my blindness, and my marriage as challenges, impairments, or handicaps. Rather, my life is a channel through which God's light shines, allowing me to see the world with new eyes: His eyes.

Editor's Note: In 2002 Jan and Gene Eckles's lives were shattered by the death of their youngest son, Joe, who was killed in an altercation with an armed man. Their faith in God, and their healed marriage, helped them survive that tragic event.

Janet Perez Eckles is a freelance writer in Orlando. For more information on her writing and speaking ministry, visit www.janeckles.com.

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