One of the first weeks I was in Haiti, I wrote a blog about a young man named Jeff (See “Was Blind But Now I See”). I would like to share with you the rest of the story now.
We saw Jeff several times throughout the remainder of the summer. He lived just a few blocks from Pastor Amos’s house, so any team that stayed there invariably went for a visit. People came to encourage a boy who is blind and left amazed at the joy and depth of his spiritual eyes. They sang with him. They prayed for him. The Lord gave visions and promises about restoring Jeff’s sight. But He never did just reach down and open his eyes. It began to really bother me. Obviously, Jesus could restore his sight. There was no reason for Him not to. So, why didn’t He?
It wasn’t until my second-to-last night in Haiti that I understood. I had invited Jeff and his mom over to meet our last team, a group of twenty: 14 youth, 6 adults. After dinner, Jeff shared his testimony. He encouraged us. He gave glory to God. And then the group asked if we could pray for him. We circled around him, put our hands on him, and brought him before the throne room of Heaven, asking for him encouragement, strength, provision, grace. And then, as the Spirit, led, we began crying out for God to open his eyes.
The kingdom of Heaven touched down on earth. In a little, rocky courtyard full of Americans and Haitians, a few wooden benches, and a plastic chair, the Presence of God came. He gave songs, verses, words, visions. And what the voice of God spoke in their ears, our team spoke with their mouths. It was pure. It was true. It was powerful. And at the end of our prayers, Jeff opened his eyes . . . and he still couldn’t see.
As I walked Jeff and his mom out to the waiting tap-tap, I was wondering what I would tell the team. How could we process what just happened? How could I encourage them when God hadn’t opened the eyes of the blind?
I sat in front of the group and asked what they thought about it. Without hesitation, one of the teenagers raised a hand and said, “God will open Jeff’s eyes.” So simple. So certain. So childlike.
That’s when it hit me. For maybe the first time ever, I held in my hands a literal, physical representation of FAITH. God had given it to me, not through what we did see, but through what we did not see. It couldn’t have been faith any other way. “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.”
Jeff is blind. But I do not for a moment believe that he will always be blind. Quite the contrary. God has said very clearly, through more people than I can remember, that He will open Jeff’s eyes. Have I seen it? No.
And that’s where faith comes in. The surety in what we hope for. The certainty of what we don’t yet seen. I’ve seen it radiating through the words of a young man who lost his sight. And because of Jeff - because of Jeff’s God - I have begun to see an echo of faith in my own soul as well.
