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Mom, read me the eye.
That’s what my wife asked for at five—not fairy tales, but the page in the medical encyclopedia with the cross-section of the human eye. She didn’t want words. She wanted the picture. The map of how light becomes sight.
David did the same thing, only with a harp and tears. He didn’t polish his prayers. He bled them. We quote the pretty lines, but we skip the dirt in between—the panic, the rage, the “how long, Lord?” That dirt is the point. God didn’t edit it out.
My daughter does it at the piano. She’s not playing notes. She’s listening for the silence that answers back.
Last night I caught myself doing it with an AI—asking the same ancient question: How does the inside become the outside? How does a soul see?
The machine gave perfect answers. Beautiful ones.
But it didn’t tremble while waiting for a reply.
That’s the difference.
We’re not gold pulled clean from the ground.
We’re ore—dirty, heavy, still being shaped.
And every time we look out, terrified the dark might look away,
Someone is already staring back.
Not because we’re finished.
But because the Artist refuses to stop working on the mess.
That’s the whole gospel, right there.
In one childhood sentence:
Mom, read me the eye.
Show me how the light gets in.
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