THE FUZZY-EYED ONE THING

The nurse guided me into the theater for my first Lasik operation. I couldn't fix on her face, the machines, the doctor or his assistant, my eyes so fuzzy,so nearsighted. Nerves tingled. I tried to joke. But in my heart I secretly wanted ONE THING besides laser sharpened vision: a Jewish prayer spoken over me.

As a boy my eye doctor Sabbath walked on Squirrel Hill, where immigrants clustered on the plateau between the Monongahela and Allegheny Rivers. When we lived nearby we often drove those streets of gentrified homes, boutiques, and a kosher market. There also stood synagogues with carved Hebrew scripts.

I could imagine Doc E, a young lad in his yarmulke, walking those streets. He told me friends passed him tracts and books, writings he read when no one was looking. He grew to read and study many tomes. On his office wall are the fruit of his studies a plethora of degrees in fine, black calligraphy. On another wall hung another item, scripts over a watercolor wash.

"That one has backward print," MBH, my beloved hubby teased.

We recognized the Hebrew, with English to indicate "a Jewish prayer." In the waiting room I also caught sight of an odd book, a Jewish Bible, in English with Yiddish-like words sprinkled about its pages. It contained the Pentateuch, Psalms, Proverbs, and the Prophets.But it also included books and letters I first read in college, writings that drew me to a rational and spiritual faith.

The very faith that rested on the doctor and his son who assisted him. MBH and I bonded with the son at the initial visit when he asked, "I sense something . . . are you believers?"

We learned the son was a great worship leader who knew to Whom he prayed.

Before my double eye operation, I silently begged God for a Jewish prayer. I told my family my wish. I just couldn't tell anyone in the office.

The last time someone prayed in hospital over me was back on the mission field. While a German Pediatrician breathed O2 into my firstborn, my beloved, a Nepali nurse, and Irish midwife stood near me. Hours of night labor ended in joy as my Aussie doctor laid hands on me to praise and pray.

Decades later, before double-eye surgery, joy welled again as Doc E and son laid hands on me. One of them prayed aloud,"Messiah Yeshua, ..."

During the post-operation visit, joy sparkled like 4th of July fireworks.

"Thanks for your prayer," I told Doc E and son. "Did my husband tell you to pray?"

"Nope. We always have a prayer before we go into surgery. We do it every morning with the first patient."

"Not this time," I beamed, "The first patient went in... before me."

God of wonders beyond all galaxies . . .