Afternoon heat bakes the clay walls of Nineveh in the late eighth century b.c.. Fine alkaline dust clings to the ankles of travelers on the packed dirt road. Anna stands at the edge of the courtyard, her weathered hands shielding her eyes against the harsh glare of the Mesopotamian sun. The distant, rhythmic scuffing of sandals over loose gravel catches her attention before a familiar shape materializes in the haze. The family dog, a loyal shadow on the long journey from Media, bounds ahead with a sharp bark. Anna's throat tightens as she cries out to her blind husband inside the house. Inside the darkened room, Tobit shuffles forward, his calloused fingers blindly scraping the rough plaster of the doorway as he stumbles toward the sound of his son's arrival.

Tobias reaches into his leather pouch, his fingers finding the small, hardened bladder of the Tigris River fish. The pungent, briny odor of the dried gall fills the narrow entryway. God chooses the strangest materials for His restoration. He does not send a sudden, disembodied flash of light from the heavens. Instead, the Maker uses the remnants of a frightening river creature, carried for hundreds of miles over rugged terrain, to accomplish His merciful work. Tobias smears the bitter medicine directly onto his father's clouded eyes. The paste burns fiercely, causing Tobit to flinch and rub his face. White, papery films peel away from the old man's eyes, dropping like dead skin onto the dusty threshold. The sudden rush of color and shape floods Tobit's vision, and he throws his arms around his son's neck, weeping into the coarse weave of the young man's travel-stained tunic.

We wait by our own gates, scanning the horizon for the return of what we have lost. The heat of the day wears on, and our vision grows dim under the heavy accumulation of grief and time. Often, the healing we desperately need arrives in an unrecognizable package. It carries a sharp sting before it brings clarity. The medicine that restores our sight to the goodness of the Father frequently burns as it strips away the cataracts of our despair. We rub our eyes, shedding the old, dead films of our past, only to find the answer standing quietly before us in the dust. The restoration requires us to stand still in the burning discomfort long enough for the scales to fall.

The papery remnants of Tobit's blindness scatter across the threshold, trampled underfoot in the joyful rush of a reunited family. Those discarded flakes are the physical evidence of an ordeal finally concluded. Years of darkness and stumbling give way to a tearful, clear-eyed embrace in the bright afternoon sun. He sees not just his son, but the active, intimate hand of the Creator working through the most unlikely, earthy means.

Clarity frequently arrives right after the sting. We stand at the doorway, hearing the familiar approach of footsteps on the gravel, bracing for whatever the road has brought home. What rough and unexpected remedy is waiting in the traveler's pouch to open our clouded eyes?