Chapter 22

BLINDNESS

How reckless we are in referring to death! There are many people who would say they would prefer death to blindness; but the nearer the approach of death, the greater becomes the comparison between the finality of the one and the affliction of the other.

Those men, however, who have faced death in many frightful forms, and dodged it; suffered the horrors of its approach, yet cheated it; who have waited for its inevitable triumph, then slipped from its grasp; who have lived with it for days, parrying its thrust, evading its clutch; yet feeling the irresistible force of its power; men who have suffered these horrors and escaped without more than the loss of even the wonderful gift of sight, can afford to treat this affliction in a lesser degree, holding the sanctity of life as a thing precious and sacred beyond all things.

Even the loss of God's great gift of sight ceases to become a burden or affliction in comparison with the indescribable joy of life snatched from death.

There are men, and we know them by the score, who are constantly looking out on life through the darkened windows of a dissatisfied existence; whose conscience is an enemy to their own happiness; who look only on the dark side of life, made darker by their own disposition.

Such men, and you can pick them out by their looks and expression, who build an artificial wall of trouble, to shut out the natural paradise of existence; these men who juggle with the joy of life until they feel they would sooner be dead, do not know, and do not realise the meaning of the life and death with which they trifle.

Let us think only of the glory of life; not of the trivial penalties which may be demanded of us in payment, and which we are so apt to magnify until we wonder whether the great gift of life is really worth while.

Let us think not of our disadvantages, but of these great gifts which we are fortunate enough to possess; let us school ourselves to a high sense of gratitude for the gifts we possess, and even an affliction becomes easy to bear.

Here I am, thirty-six years of age, in the pride of health, strength, and energy, and suddenly struck blind!

And what are my feelings? Even such a seeming catastrophe does not appall me. I can no longer drive, run, or follow any of the vigorous sports, the love for which is so insistent in healthy manhood. I shall miss all these things, yet I am not depressed.

Am I not better off, after all, than he who was born blind? With the loss of my sight I have become imbued with the gift of appreciation. What is my inconvenience compared with the affliction of being sightless from birth.

For thirty-six years I had become accustomed to sights of the world, and now, though blind, I can walk in the garden in a sunny day; and my imagination can see it and take in the picture.

I can talk to my friends, knowing what they look like, and by their conversation read the expression on their faces. I can hear the traffic of a busy thoroughfare, and my mind will recognise the scene.

I can even go to the play; hear the jokes and listen to the songs and music, and understand what is going on without experiencing that feeling of mystery and wonder which must be the lot of him who has always been blind.

And the greatest gift of all, my sense of gratitude, that after passing through death, I am alive!