Janet Perez

Eckles

New friends ask me, "Being blind, how do you put on your make-up?"

My answer is simple: I do it carefully.

After living with complete blindness for 25 years, I often forget my limitations.

But trouble comes when getting ready to go out. I pry myself from endless tasks. At the last minute, I rush around like a crazy woman. I hop in the shower, slip on my robe and dash into my walk-in closet. Frantically, I slide hangers, looking for any outfit to wear.

How do I do this with no sight? It's pretty simple. When I purchase an item, I store in my memory its characteristics—the texture, the shape of the neckline, buttons or length of sleeve.

One light touch tells me what the item is. But when I'm in a hurry, trying to find the right outfit gets a bit tough. Not because I can't see, but because I just have too many clothes. Way more than any blind gal should be allowed to have. The bar holding all those hangers is probably sagging from the weight.

Oh, how my jammed closet resembled my life—full of tasks of all kinds and sizes. Like a squirrel running from tree to tree, I'd dash from one task to another.

I had no choice—lots of people to please. Fueling that desire, even as a young girl, I tried to perform to win my parents' and teachers' approval. Later on, I wanted to please my family, my employer, and my friends. Phew! I thought that the only way to please myself was by pleasing them.

Have you been there? The pleasing craze explodes during the holiday season. We rush through life eager to make someone happy. And the level of stress and tension rises like the thermometer in Orlando's summer.

So this upcoming season, I vow to cool off. God never meant us to live in the heat of tension. He gave one pretty refreshing directive:

Like fog in the morning, the spirit of Christmas had vanished. Still, I shuffled in the garage. One by one, I retrieved the bins I'd stored the previous Christmas. While the aroma of sugar cookies wafted through the air and "Silent Night" played in the background, I began the decorating.

Placing the nativity scene as the focal point of our family room, I spread the rest of the decorations around the house: red and green candles, musical boxes with winter scenes, and bright red poinsettias framed with green garland adorned with burgundy velvet bows. They all transformed our home into a lively winterland.

Next, I retrieved three stockings to fill the marked places above the fireplace; each embroidered with our sons' names: Jason, Jeff, and Joe. Once Jason's and Jeff's were hung, with tears burning my eyes, I clutched Joe's against my chest.

The empty stocking sears my heart. It had been five years since the Lord called Joe home. Five years that Joe's absence had left an emptiness we could almost touch. And five years that God's grace wiped away portions of the grief that flogged our hearts. But often, it's the scorching pain that opens our eyes to a bigger picture.

Years ago, when our three sons, including Joe, were still young, I focused on providing a fabulous Christmas with a perfect tree to make it an awesome celebration. As a result, little things tended to roil in me, such as a light strand that refused to shine because of a burned-out bulb. Annoyed at the glitch, I promptly set off to resolve it — I fussed, I rearranged, then plugged and unplugged until frustration grew hot in me.

How foolish and silly. I focused on that one bulb, dismissing the glow of the star atop the Christmas tree. I'd done the same with light bulbs that burned in my life—from broken relationships to shattered plans. Exerting tons of energy trying to fix them, I missed the star—Christ the Lord, who gave significance to my life.

When that void in our heart aches to be filled, it's the star of comfort that makes it whole. When bitter sorrow robs the spirit of Christmas, it's the star of His genuine love that whispers joy. When a health diagnosis shakes our world, it's the star of reassurance that shines the certainty of new tomorrows. It's the same star that never loses the brilliance of hope, incomprehensible hope. One we can only embrace when all strands of life burn out.

With eyes focused on the star, I hang Joe's stocking along with his brothers'; not empty anymore—but filled with sweet memories—his wit and laughter; his hugs and kisses.

For that reason, God called it His "Morning Star" to dispel our darkness, dry our tears, and repair strands we cannot fix.

"Will happiness ever come?" I asked myself during sleepless nights. What is happiness, anyway?

That emotion made sense for others, but not for me. My world had turned dark. Blindness set in at age 31 and happiness was lost. Lost back in my days as a sighted person. Now, only gloom awaited me.

But how wrong I was. The journey from devastation to deep joy wasn't easy nor fast, but doable. A reminder of that transition, that profound transformation, was stirred during my recent trip to Mexico.

The airport escort guided me as we entered the airplane. The flight attendant handed immigration forms to passengers. "One per family please."

I sat by the window and after all initial announcements ended I pressed the light to call for assistance.

"Could you please help me fill this out?" I asked the flight attendant who came to the seat.

"Sure. Come with me."

I gathered my stuff and followed him to the front of the airplane.

"You can sit here," he said.

I settled in the seat, spacious and comfortable. I stretched out my legs, plenty of room. We finished the form and he asked if I wanted to stay in that seat. I was in first class. "Are you kidding?" I said with a silly grin, "Sure, would love that."

I made myself comfortable and began to compare. Rather than getting the medicine-size cup of water I would get in the other section of the plane, I got a fresh, cold bottle of water. Rather than the tiny bag of peanuts, I got my choice of appetizers. The trip was, well, unexpectedly delightful.

I had made that same transition after I lost my sight. I had been taking tiny doses of happiness—in relationships, vacations, shopping, activities and superficial pass-times. I thought that was how one finds happiness.

But joy was different. When God offered me a seat in the VIP section of His love, I accepted. And the trip through life turned better.

Painful turbulence came, but His power calmed my heart. With Him as my pilot, guiding my life, momentary, superficial activities masked as happiness belonged in the coach section. Now a sweet, lasting, deep joy danced in my life.

He offers you the very same. He has a seat reserved just for you. And if you desire to leave behind the search to find happiness and instead relish in joy, complete joy that shines through your days, here are three steps we can all follow:

1. Change our perception. Recognize we don't find happiness. We create it. We craft it by turning the key to unlock our heart and receive the joy God offers. His desire is that we live in complete joy. When happy moments, happy relationships, and happy results come to an end, joy remains.

2. Celebrate the promise God gave. During tough moments, painful stages, it's not our strength, but His power that lifts us up and carries us through. Relying in that guarantee is what revives joy once again.

3. Call upon Him when sadness, gloom or fear draws near. Calling the powerful name of Jesus silences destructive thoughts of self-pity, loneliness, and discouragement. With them out of the way, joy will glow again.

The other day while my fingers danced on my keyboard, suddenly something happened. My muscles tightened. "Cindi, don't know what's wrong," I wrote to my very-wise friend. "I'm stuck, really stuck. My computer says there's no room on the disk and I'm out of memory."

Even from far away, she resolved the crisis. "Sometimes," she wrote gently, "this can happen when you have too many windows open."

Duh! That's exactly what had happened. I, the queen of multi-tasking, had so many windows open at once that a mighty draft was most likely blowing my way.

Why do we do that? We open windows in life too—our kids do something off-the-wall for the umpteenth time, and we open the window of worry. When will they ever learn? Money problems don't let up, so we open the window of anxiety. The doctor's office leaves a message, "We found something abnormal in the test." Then we open the window of fear. Our spouse still won't understand us so we fling open the window of anger.

Then our life gets stuck with no more memory of joy. The file where peace was stored can't be accessed and the folder of security is empty.

I've been there and it's an ugly place when that folder is empty, when it's void of confidence, of reassurance or hope. Unable to deal with an unexpected tragedy, I filled the folder of my heart with grief and gloom. At 31, a retinal disease robbed my sight, aggressively, completely, and with no expectation of regaining it again.

That's when I opened not just a window, but a huge patio door of self-pity. Why me? I asked over and over again. The winds of anxiety and fear blew right through my soul. What will I do being blind, unable to care for my 3, 5, and 7-year-old sons? Where would I find help, answers to my questions, comfort? How could I calm my nagging fears?

In the midst of all those questions, like my friend Cindi, Jesus was gentle to come to my rescue. To remind me and to point to a different kind of fear, the fear that ushers perfect comfort:

At 13-years old, I sat in the ophthalmologist's examining chair. With my face placed on the chin rest and my pupils dilated, the doctor shone a bright light into my eyes.

"Hmmm…" he said. Then he leaned back on his chair.

"She did inherit it," he said. "You need to be prepared. There is no cure for this retinal disease."

My father carried the Retinitis Pigmentosa gene causing a deterioration of the retina which, in most cases, results in blindness. Although my brother's retinas seemed to be fine, I'd inherited the gene.

Fifteen years after my initial diagnosis, my father began to lose his eyesight and so did I. He was 55 years old, but I was only 30. In a matter of two years, we had both lost our sight completely.

I shook my fist at God, at the world and at the horror of facing the rest of my days in darkness. "Unless a miracle happens," the doctor had said, "you'll never regain your sight."

My life crumbled. And a black curtain fell on the dreams my husband and I had for us and for our three little boys.

But when I turned to God for hope and strength, He responded by opening my spiritual eyes to a new revelation. My father had given me the RP gene. But he had given me something valuable also — the example of determination and tenacity.

My parents, my brother and I lived in Bolivia in 1964 when my father defied the family's opposition to move to America. He and Mom worked tirelessly to comply with the requirements imposed by the U.S. Immigration Department to enter the country and establish residency.

The day finally came when he would travel alone to the U.S. Once in the states, he overcame humiliation, intense loneliness, helplessness, and uncertainty. He endured ridicule due to his lack of fluency in English. But he pressed on. And he managed to gather enough money for the basics — rent a small apartment, buy modest furniture from thrift stores and put a down payment on a car.

Nine months later, he sent airline tickets for my mom, my brother and me. And our family began our life in America.

Decades later, as an American citizen, I look back at what he'd shown me. He taught me the determination to move forward when facing adversity. He set an example proving that humility is crucial to success. He demonstrated the commitment to family and the importance of setting priorities.

His journey taught me valuable lessons for my own path in the darkness. As a baby takes his first steps holding tight to his father's hand, my dad held onto God as he stepped from the comfort of our hometown in Bolivia to the unknown in a foreign land.

I did the same as I stepped into the unfamiliarity of a sightless world. Holding onto God's hand, His word whispered to my soul:

“Are you ready?” my Dad whispered.

I nodded, putting my trembling arm through his.

The church echoed with the guests’ whispers. And a soft melody came from the piano. Gene, my bridegroom, waited for me at the altar. The music changed—my sign to begin my walk down the aisle.

My steps were slow, but my heart beat fast.

Dressed in pure white, I joined my prince. “For better or for worse…”

I repeated those words. And back then, they were just words, because my focus was on the thrill of my dream coming true.

But nine years later, my world darkened with the reality of the “worse.”

“What I can see is a clear deterioration of the retina,” the ophthalmologist had said. “You both need to prepare.” He paused. “With this retinal disease, no one knows how long you’ll have your sight.”

Gene held me tight as we walked out of the doctor’s office.

“He’s wrong. It won’t happen. I can see just fine,” I reasoned.

Each day became a test of the amount of sight I still had left. One week I could see the furniture around me; the next I could only perceive portions of some items.

It’s okay, I can still see what’s important—our three little boys’ faces. I tried to comfort my anxiety.

But no reasoning or comforting thoughts changed the reality. We found no treatment, surgery, vitamins, or medications to halt the blindness progression.

I tossed at night. Will Gene still love me? If I were to go blind, how would that affect our marriage and our intimacy?

I tried to brush off those tormenting thoughts. But the months that followed ushered what I dreaded.

Out of habit, I felt for the light switch in our bathroom, I flipped it on, but… the darkness remained. I held my breath and my muscles tightened.

Holding onto the cold, slick countertop, I looked toward the mirror and saw a dreary-gray nothing.

With no sight at all, I was about to walk down the aisle of misery. The trumpets of sorrow sounded to torment my soul.

I opened the front door. "Yikes! You scared me," I screamed feigning fright. "Who's that?" I peered down at the three-foot little person.

He wore a mask framed with wild hair, black and purple. A huge lumpy nose, droopy eyes, and a mouth revealing jagged teeth gave a new meaning to the word 'ugly'.

A muffled, "Trick or treat" wafted from behind the mask.

"Goodness, you really scared me." I chuckled as I dropped hard candy into the orange plastic pumpkin.

Those are memories of times my little boys also dressed in strange costumes and dashed from house to house with their daddy trailing behind. I stayed home greeting the neighborhood trick-or-treaters.

But now, years later, Halloween masks resemble those I try to slip on. They come in handy to cover the real me.

When people ask me how I lost my sight, I give the routine answer: "A retinal disease deteriorated my retina and took my sight."

A simple answer to a simple question.

When asked about how I dealt with the unexpected tragedy, that's a different story. I'm tempted to pull down the mask over my heart and give a bland answer.

"It was tough at first, but in time, I adjusted."

But underneath that mask is a whole different script with the real answers: "I wanted to die, I hated my life, I wanted to give up, and wondered if my little boys would survive with a mommy who couldn't see."

Then God's Word nudged me to remove that mask and allow the glow of truth to shine through.