One child was blind.

A beautiful excerpt from Michael O’Brien’s A Cry of Stone which illustrates well my last post.

In the drowsy sun of an autumn afternoon, she sat sketching the brightly colored trees in a little park not far from the house.  The walkways were temporarily deserted and at the moment when she felt most grateful for this haven of peace, a noise of galloping hoofs thundered around a curve in the path.  A rushing shape approached through piles of red leaves, scattering them left and right . . . .

Rose tore her eyes from her drawing to see two gasping little girls running hand in hand.  They went past at a tremendous clip, leaving in their wake a whir of whipped air, spiraling leaves, and a stream of sound like a long, pure note, as if they were humming together.

One child was blind.  Her eyes were gouged and scarred, her head nodding in a sightless headlong plunge, her face intent on nothing save the grip of her companion’s hand the unsuspected thickness of air, and the taste of utter exhilaration.  On the face of her seeing friend were other ecstasies–large, open, race-horse eyes, the panting thoroughbred power of giving the impossible thing.  The seeing girl had bestowed upon her blind friend a different form of sight, the feeling of wind on skin, of small unused muscles pumping at catastrophic speed, the awesome pitch through treacherous air that always contained within it the threat of collision, and the promise of soaring.

There is my soul, thought Rose.  O, O, ay, ay, that I might trust what you are doing with me in this rushing darkness.

If you are that blind child, put your full trust in the One holding your hand.

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