“Your eyes—what color are they?”
His mother’s voice trembled.
He blinked, still unsteady, dust from the street clinging to his lashes. “I don’t know,” he said, nearly laughing. “You tell me.”
She placed her hand on his cheek, her fingers trembling. He saw her tears before he felt them fall—thin rivers weaving through the lines of her weathered face.
That morning, he had waited at the Temple steps as always—his spot since he was twelve. Blind since birth, ignored, brushed past, pitied. Sometimes fed. Mostly forgotten.
Then—mud. On his eyes.
He had flinched, confused by the wet weight. The man—Jesus—had stooped close without fear or disdain. His hands were steady, his tone not loud, just sure.
“Go. Wash in the pool of Siloam.”
He stumbled there, guided by memory. Climbed barefoot into the shallows, bent forward, hands in the water.
The world split open.
And didn’t stop spinning.
Now he sat in the council room, pressed between robed men and questions sharper than blades.
“How did you receive your sight?” one snapped.
“I told you,” he repeated for the third time. “He put mud on my eyes. I washed. Then I could see.”
“This man—Jesus—he is a sinner. He healed you on the Sabbath.”
He inhaled, then spoke slowly, every word deliberate.
“I don’t know if he is a sinner. But I know this: I was blind. Now I see.”
Murmurs rippled like wind through a wheat field. He could feel their anger scraping closer.
“What did he do to you? How did he open your eyes?”
He shifted in his seat. “Why do you want to hear it again? Do you want to become his disciples too?”
Gasps. One of them slammed his staff to the floor.
“You were born in utter sin—and you try to teach us?”
They expelled him. Just like that.
The door closed hard behind him.
He stood outside the synagogue, sunlight glaring in his new eyes. The noise had stopped. Even the birds seemed wary of coming close. He stood for a long while. No purpose in his hands, no coin in his cup, no seat to return to. Sight, yes. But no place.
Then footsteps.
He turned. The man from before—the one with steady hands, now silent and close.
“Do you believe in the Son of Man?” Jesus asked.
He hesitated. “Who is he, sir, that I may believe?”
“You have seen him. And it is he who speaks to you.”
The words didn’t rush into him, but settled. Firm. Like water filling a cup.
“I believe,” he whispered, and dropped to his knees.
Jesus didn’t touch him this time. He didn’t need to.
Around them, the street bustled. Merchants called, carts rattled. Nothing had changed.
And everything had.
He stayed kneeling, eyes open, light still settling into places his heart hadn’t mapped yet.
“Your eyes—what color are they?”
His mother’s voice trembled.
He blinked, still unsteady, dust from the street clinging to his lashes. “I don’t know,” he said, nearly laughing. “You tell me.”
She placed her hand on his cheek, her fingers trembling. He saw her tears before he felt them fall—thin rivers weaving through the lines of her weathered face.
That morning, he had waited at the Temple steps as always—his spot since he was twelve. Blind since birth, ignored, brushed past, pitied. Sometimes fed. Mostly forgotten.
Then—mud. On his eyes.
He had flinched, confused by the wet weight. The man—Jesus—had stooped close without fear or disdain. His hands were steady, his tone not loud, just sure.
“Go. Wash in the pool of Siloam.”
He stumbled there, guided by memory. Climbed barefoot into the shallows, bent forward, hands in the water.
The world split open.
And didn’t stop spinning.
Now he sat in the council room, pressed between robed men and questions sharper than blades.
“How did you receive your sight?” one snapped.
“I told you,” he repeated for the third time. “He put mud on my eyes. I washed. Then I could see.”
“This man—Jesus—he is a sinner. He healed you on the Sabbath.”
He inhaled, then spoke slowly, every word deliberate.
“I don’t know if he is a sinner. But I know this: I was blind. Now I see.”
Murmurs rippled like wind through a wheat field. He could feel their anger scraping closer.
“What did he do to you? How did he open your eyes?”
He shifted in his seat. “Why do you want to hear it again? Do you want to become his disciples too?”
Gasps. One of them slammed his staff to the floor.
“You were born in utter sin—and you try to teach us?”
They expelled him. Just like that.
The door closed hard behind him.
He stood outside the synagogue, sunlight glaring in his new eyes. The noise had stopped. Even the birds seemed wary of coming close. He stood for a long while. No purpose in his hands, no coin in his cup, no seat to return to. Sight, yes. But no place.
Then footsteps.
He turned. The man from before—the one with steady hands, now silent and close.
“Do you believe in the Son of Man?” Jesus asked.
He hesitated. “Who is he, sir, that I may believe?”
“You have seen him. And it is he who speaks to you.”
The words didn’t rush into him, but settled. Firm. Like water filling a cup.
“I believe,” he whispered, and dropped to his knees.
Jesus didn’t touch him this time. He didn’t need to.
Around them, the street bustled. Merchants called, carts rattled. Nothing had changed.
And everything had.
He stayed kneeling, eyes open, light still settling into places his heart hadn’t mapped yet.
