“What do you see?”

The man opens his eyes—still wet, he blinks, trying to process sensations he hasn’t experienced in years. He searches for words.

“People,” he says slowly. “But they look like trees… walking around.”

It’s strange. And it’s incredible.

Earlier, the blind man sat in quiet darkness. Away from the noise of the crowd, the shuffle of feet, the familiar sounds he used to navigate his corner of Bethsaida. He’d trusted this Rabbi enough to follow Him out of the village without explanation.

Then, as the man stood waiting for the Rabbi to speak, without warning—spit strikes his eyes.

Before he could process why a Rabbi would spit directly into his face, he feels the Teacher’s hands and hears the words of His prayer.

And now, mere moments later? Trees.

After years of blindness, even these rudimentary shapes would have been enough..

As he waited again for the Rabbi to speak, he heard nothing.

The shadow of Jesus’ hands move toward his face.

One more prayer.

When the man opened his eyes this time, he could see clearly—fully,
the eyes of Jesus staring back at him.

The blind man might have been happy with walking trees.

After years of darkness, that much sight would have changed everything. Being able to move again without feeling his way through the world would have sufficed. He could have thanked Jesus for the miracle of increased independence and gone on his way.

When we encounter God’s healing in partial doses, we often respond the same way.

Asking again feels assumptive. Wanting more feels ungrateful. Improvement, after all, is still something.

So we settle.

We spiritualize restraint and call it reverence. We thank God for what we received in part and quietly lower our expectations for what we didn’t.

The posture feels humble. It looks like maturity.

But underneath sits a lie we rarely voice:

“If healing didn’t happen fully the first time, God must be finished”

Jesus didn’t pray again because the first prayer failed.
He prayed again because what stood in front of Him wasn’t finished.

There’s no indication that God’s will shifted between the first prayer and the second. No correction. No escalation. No change in posture or tone. Jesus treats partial sight the same way He treats darkness—as something that doesn’t belong.

So He stays.

His second prayer flows from agreement with what is true about the man standing in front of Him. Agreement with the Father’s heart for His son’s wholeness.

Jesus didn’t stop at improvement.
He stopped when the opposition to God’s design was removed.

In refusing to settle before the work was done, He honored His Father. 

Until next time,
Addison