I’m color blind. Not completely. I can still see that trees are green and fire trucks are red, but shades get me. Which means clothes get mismatched frequently. And when cooking chicken, the meat thermometer has become my best friend.
While it causes some inconveniences, the flipside is it’s given me a unique perspective. We don’t always perceive reality accurately, but that doesn’t make it any less real.
Evidence and Trust: Clinician, Skeptic and Believer
As a psychologist, I love data. I love to follow where the evidence leads. But one of the first rules of research is that the absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.
Just because I can’t see a color doesn’t mean it does not exist. How silly would it be if I walked around screaming: “There is no green!” simply because I can’t see it. That would not be scientific. That would be delusional.
There are so many things I accept on trust: I’ve never been to space, the bottom of the ocean, or even the Eiffel Tower. But others have, and I believe their witness. I’ve never seen the wind, but I know what it feels like. I’ve never seen grace, but I’ve seen people forgive what seemed unforgiveable. I’ve never looked at love under a microscope. But I know it when I hold my wife and children.
Not all truth can be seen. And certainly not through flawed perception. Some truths are only known in other ways—by trust, by witness, and by transformation.
Without humility, we rely on the wrong ways of seeing—and we miss the most profound truths. C.S. Lewis captured this beautifully when he wrote, “Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the world in letters too large for some of us to see.”
The Humility of Color Checking and Yes, It’s Safe to Eat the Chicken
Colorblindness is caused by the eye lacking certain structures, rods, and cones. Those of us who experience it face added existential dread during the already stressful Christmas season: does my sweater actually match or will I be the drab Grinch at the party?
Frequently, I have to rely on the superior vision of my wife. And in her absence, my 2 ½ year old daughter’s. There is a certain humility in asking, “Sweetie, is daddy’s shirt red or green?” After all, Christ said we must have faith like a child. And I’m learning to do just that. If my daughter says it’s green, that’s good enough for me.
Likewise, I will never be able to tell by looking if the chicken I baked is done. I have to trust the meat thermometer. It’s the only thing that keeps dinner from becoming a trip to the hospital.
There are things I will never see—but I’ve learned to trust people, tools, and a deeper wisdom. The world I perceive isn’t always accurate. And I’m ok with that. Because, if I followed my perceptions, I’d be the worst-dressed guest at every Christmas party and chronically ill from undercooked poultry.
And spiritually? It’s the same thing. I don’t always feel God’s presence. But that doesn’t mean He’s not there.
A Crucifix, a Child, and the God Who Speaks
Just like I can’t see green clearly, I’ve never audibly heard God. But that doesn’t mean He isn’t speaking. His language is simply too beautiful for most of us to comprehend. It’s the language of the Incarnation where, “The word became flesh and made His dwelling among us” (Jn. 1:14). It’s the language of the Cross and the empty Tomb. It’s the language of love—and silence.
The truth is, you and I lack the spiritual rods and cones in our souls just as much as I lack the physical ones in my eyes. God, in His mercy, makes up the difference.
I may have never heard His voice like thunder, but I’ve heard His whisper in my soul. I’ve never seen Him in the flesh. But I’ve received His Body in the Eucharist. I’ve never felt the physical embrace of His love. But I’ve stared at a crucifix.
My daughter sees green and tells me what color my sweater is. I trust her. Likewise, the apostles saw the risen Christ. The saints encountered Him. The martyrs died for Him. I trust them, just like I trust my daughter. It’s not blind faith—it’s relational faith.
And yes, if you do ever come over for dinner, my meat thermometer tells me when it’s safe to serve the roast.
The Blind Leper Who Saw
In A Song for Nagasaki, the story of Dr. Takashi Nagai is recounted—a man who lost everything when the atomic bomb destroyed Nagasaki. Though suffering radiation sickness and the death of his wife, he cared for others and became a voice for peace and mercy.
Copies of his writings were given to a leper colony in Tokyo. The men there, many blind due to the disease, had the book read aloud to them. They were moved to tears.
One man, who previously attempted suicide in despair later recalled, “It’s now fifty years since I became a leper, and I can say, thank God for my leprosy and thank God for Nagai.”
By God’s grace I am only partially color-blind. But even in that I’ve learned that there’s more to seeing than what the eyes perceive. Sometimes, it’s in losing something that we begin to see.
The Glasses I Haven’t Worn
People often ask: “why don’t you get the special glasses?” Yes, there are companies that recreate what my eyes lack. And I love watching those videos—grown men weeping as they see Fall leaves or sunsets clearly for the first time.
It’s beautiful. And it’s enough for me to know it’s there, even if I can’t see it now. For me, it’s a physical reminder of an eternal truth, “For now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face” (1 Cor. 13:12).
I may wait a little while longer at cross walks (thank God for whoever made the blessed little “walk” man symbol). I may never really know if my shirt is red or green. But that’s ok. I’m learning to walk by faith, not by sight.
Finding Joy in a Less Colorful World
Despite what our post-modern culture says, truth isn’t relative. It’s that our vision is limited. That’s a hard thing to face.
The truth is, sometimes I don’t see how God could fix a difficulty or bring good from suffering. I’ve had moments where the pain felt pointless, the burden too heavy, or the silence too deep. But I’ve learned to trust that even when I can’t see, He is working.
Colorblindness reminds me I don’t always see what’s there. But one day, I will.
Because as Scripture says, “He will wipe away every tear” (Rev. 21:4).
Until then? I’ll trust the walk symbol. I’ll ask my daughter if my shirt matches. I’ll use the meat thermometer.
And I will listen for God—not in the thunder or in the whirlwind, but in the quiet of the Eucharist, where His silent love speaks louder than my imperfect sight.
Photo by Owais Bandaly on Unsplash
