Wolf of Sight

Prologue

Prologue

“I have always thought the ability to see was overrated. I have met too many nasty people in this world. If they are that ugly in spirit, I cannot imagine what their physical appearance must be like.”

~Heather

Fifteen years ago …

“Mama, what’s it like to see?” Five-year-old Heather Banks asked as she and her mother sat on the front porch swing. It was late November, and autumn had finally decided to make an appearance in the small town of Shady Grove, Texas. A slight breeze rustled the leaves covering their front yard. Heather could smell the crisp scent of the pine trees that stubbornly held on to their needles. The girl only knew it was the pine she was smelling because her daddy had, on several occasions, walked her around the whole of their property. Heather would touch and smell the different plants and trees so she could learn about them in a way she would understand. Her father often told her she shouldn’t view her blindness as missing sight, but regard it as an opportunity to “see” the world in a way that those with sight never would.

“Some days, sight is wonderful,” her mama said. “There are many fantastic things to see: vibrant colors, interesting animals, stunning lightning, freshly fallen snow, or the smile on a child's face. These are all amazing things to witness. However, there are days when sight is a curse. There are many things I wish I couldn’t see. The hateful look of a person whose heart is full of malcontent, the daily pictures of bloodshed and violence on the evening news, the aftermath of a natural disaster, or watching a loved one waste away from an illness that has no cure. I suppose it is a blessing and a curse, just like our other senses.”

“I wish I could see,” Heather said. She rarely voiced this feeling. The girl didn’t want to disappoint her parents and, somehow, even at that tender age, she knew it did. But every now and then, her heart would grow sad because she knew she was missing out on wonderful things.

“I know you do, honey,” her mom said gently. “And I don’t judge you for that. Don’t ever be afraid to express your true feelings. Keeping them all bottled up inside stops you from dealing with your emotions in a healthy way. They become infected, like an unclean wound. You will grow bitter because of your disappointment. Before you know it, life has passed you by, and you’ve missed incredible blessings because you were too busy crying over things you can’t change.”

“Daddy says I am blessed because I can see the world the way others can’t.”

“That is true. Your daddy has always had the ability to find the good in circumstances that often seem only bad. Tell me this, little Tumbleweed, what do you hear right now?”

Heather focused on her surroundings and let her ears take in the sounds. “I hear the wind … and the sound of something scampering on the ground. I hear five, no, six different types of birds. I hear the hum of the air conditioner, the tumbling of the dryer, and the clinking of the ice in your glass as it melts.”

Her mama chuckled. “I hear very little of that. I hear the birds, but not all the different ones, and I hear the wind. But my ears are easily distracted by my sight, so I miss out on the other things. I know the strength of your other senses might be a poor consolation prize for your lack of sight, but don’t miss out on what having those acute senses offer you that others will never experience.”

Later that night, Heather lay in her bed. Her parents were asleep, and she could hear the soft snores of her father. The house creaked and groaned in its usual fashion, as if it, too, was getting settled in for good night’s rest. But as the world around Heather quieted, the little girl couldn’t sleep.

The words from her conversation with her mama repeated in her mind. Heather knew she didn’t want to live her life missing out on things because she was too busy wishing she wasn’t blind. After all, Heather was actually five and a half, which was nearly six. She’d be in double digits before she knew it.

“Don’t go wasting the opportunities the good Lord gave you, Heather Banks,” she whispered to herself. It was something one of the old ladies in her church had said to her recently. Heather hadn’t known what it meant at the time, but now, she thought maybe she did.

She took a deep breath noting the familiar smells of her home. The leftover scent of the cinnamon candles her mama liked to burn, the pipe her father smoked every evening after dinner, and the dryer sheets from the freshly laundered towels that filled her bathroom cabinets. These were scents that would forever be burned into her mind and would always fill her with warmth and joy. She smiled as she heard one of the dogs outside howl, causing the neighbor’s dog down the road to answer. She heard the rustle of the willow tree that grew just outside her window and the hoot of an owl. It was as if the world around her was telling her good night because it knew she alone would hear them.

It was then and there, sitting on her bed at five and a half years old, but really nearly six, that Heather Banks made a decision. She wouldn’t miss a single thing in life. She would wake up thankful to be a part of the world, knowing God made her for a reason. Therefore, she needed to get on living so she could find out what that reason was.

Finally, at peace with herself, she scooted underneath the blankets. The warm flannel sheets felt good against her chilled skin as she snuggled herself down. Heather fell asleep with a smile on her face as she realized she was excited about her future or, as her daddy called it, the adventure that was life. Hers would be a grand adventure because she would make it so. She would find the joy in every minute and hold tight to it like she did her tire swing rope as it flew her through the air. She would smile and laugh and joke and laugh some more. There would be no room for bitterness or disappointment. “Good night, world,” she whispered and she swore she could hear the whisper of a woman’s voice answer back, “Good night, little healer.”