10/05/2025
 Can I speak candidly to my fellow believers for a moment—especially those who see disability and instinctively reach for prayer? Please stop telling blind people—especially strangers—you’ll pray for our sight to be restored.
I know your heart may be in the right place. I believe you mean well. But as someone who lives with blindness every single day, I need you to understand that not all prayers are appropriate—especially when they’re rooted in assumptions rather than relationship or reverence.
Here’s the truth: A) Most of us aren’t praying to be “healed.” 😎 God didn’t make a mistake when He created us.
Psalm 139:14 says, “I praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” That truth doesn’t come with an asterisk. It doesn’t say, “unless you’re blind.” My blindness is not a flaw in the design—it’s part of the masterpiece.
Let me share a recent experience.
I was recovering from a brutal migraine that lasted all weekend. If you’ve ever had one, you know it drains everything from you—patience, strength, energy. My husband had flown home earlier than expected, and since neither of us had the energy to cook, we agreed on takeout from Olive Garden. (Yes, I eat there happily. Keep your judgment—I’ll keep my breadsticks.)
He almost made a stop on his way from the airport to grab the food, but the added fee was absurd. So despite feeling less than human, I ordered an Uber.
My driver was friendly, polite. But less than five minutes into the ride, he asked: “What happened to your sight?” Now, according to a 2022 National Federation of the Blind report, 72% of blind or low vision individuals say they’re asked intrusive personal questions by strangers at least once a week. So no, it wasn’t new. It was just exhausting. Still, I took a breath and gave him a thoughtful, honest summary of my story.
Then came the kicker. “Are you a Christian? Do you believe in God? Then you need to pray for Him to restore your sight. You can’t just accept that you’re blind.” My first reaction? Weariness. My second? Resolve.
I’ve been legally blind for years. I’m also a cancer survivor who has endured more surgeries and medical procedures than birthdays. Yet here I am— thriving, joyful, fulfilled. Not despite my blindness, but in many ways, because of it.
So I said:
“Sir, God didn’t get it wrong. He didn’t accidentally skip a step or misplace His healing hand. My blindness is not a punishment, nor is it a spiritual shortcoming. My favorite story in the Bible isn’t just when Jesus healed the blind man—it’s what happened afterward. That man became a witness. He traveled and told others about the power and presence of Christ. He became a living, breathing testimony. And that’s my calling too—not to be cured, but to carry the Gospel, to reflect His light through the very thing you think disqualifies me.”
Let me take you to John 9. Jesus and His disciples encounter a man blind from birth. The disciples ask, “Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” And Jesus responds: “Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him.” (John 9:3)
That man’s blindness wasn’t a flaw. It was a platform for glory. Mine is too.
And let’s be practical: sudden sight restoration isn’t the fairy tale people think it is. Scientific research shows that individuals who gain vision after decades—or a lifetime—of blindness experience neurological disorientation . They struggle to recognize faces, understand depth, and navigate space. The brain doesn’t just “know” how to see. Vision is learned, processed, and constructed over time.
I told the driver that if I were miraculously cured tomorrow, I wouldn’t know how to live. Sight doesn’t equal understanding. In fact, even the partial vision I have now is often overwhelming.
You see, I’ve built my life through sound, touch, memory, and intuition. Those aren’t backups—they’re the primary way I experience the world. And that world? It’s full. It’s vibrant. It’s meaningful.
Now imagine saying something like that to a child.
“Ask God to fix you.”
What seed does that plant? That their body, their brain, their unique way of existing in the world—is broken? That the Creator made a mistake?
We have to do better. 2 Corinthians 5:7 says, “For we walk by faith, not by sight.” For me, that’s not poetic. It’s daily life. I live it—literally.
Faith is not a formula for able-bodied perfection. It’s a posture of trust. Trust that God’s strength is made perfect in our weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9). Trust that God uses all of us—not just the ones who fit the mold.
So if you’re moved to pray when you meet someone like me, I won’t stop you. But maybe your prayer should sound a little different.
Instead of, “Lord, restore their sight,” try: “Lord, help me see their story as valuable. Teach me to love as You do—without condition or assumption.” Because healing doesn’t always mean curing.
Sometimes healing looks like understanding. Sometimes it sounds like honor. And sometimes it means recognizing that God’s glory doesn’t need a rewrite—it needs a witness.
