The Curious Spectacles of Almost!
- MS
- Aug 6
- 8 min read
It started on a quiet morning, the kind where the sky looks washed in peace and time slows just enough to listen. I didn’t know it would be that kind of day. The kind where old lies unravel. The kind where my heart learned to breathe differently.
Some people search for buried treasure. Others chase down ancient relics or decode cryptic prophecies. But me? I became a detective the moment I noticed something wasn’t adding up.
My heart knew it first, that quiet nudge that said, “Wait… this can’t be all there is.” Not just in life, but in me.
Why did I feel like I had to earn love I’d already been given?
Why did grace sound like a theory instead of a lived reality?
The evidence was everywhere: broken lenses, the kind I had forgotten I was wearing. They were cracked by comparison, scratched by shame, fogged over by wounds, and bent by approval addiction. These were the types of lenses that made grace look blurry and fear feel normal.
I wore them for so long that I thought they were my eyes.
For many years, I tried to be right for God, but I lost sight of Him. I perceived Him as mostly disappointed, silently judging me and waiting for change. I saw the cross as a mere legal loophole rather than a doorway home, interpreting His silence as judgment and His presence as conditional.
While I loved Him, fear lingered until one day, in a quiet garden, I saw Him clearly again. Jesus appeared, smiling, and spoke words that eased a deep ache within me. “You’ve been trying to prove you’re lovable. I only want you to see Me as I am, so you can remember who you are.”
In that moment, old misconceptions shattered. I recalled the true garden where we walked freely, without rules or shame, just belonging. His holiness was beauty, His love the foundation of my existence. I realized I didn’t need to strive for closeness; I was already home.
That revelation transformed my inner turmoil into stillness and fear into curiosity. I wanted to run to God, not manage Him. When I asked why it took so long to see, Jesus simply said, “The lenses were heavy. But now you remember. Remembering is the beginning of seeing.” That day, I saw God and myself clearly again.
Exhibit A: The Arrival of the Scroll.
The scroll arrived early, before the garden had fully stretched awake, before the sun had yawned over the treetops. Wrapped delicately in a silk ribbon, the hue of faded roses, soft and shiny, it slipped gracefully through the creaking old gate of the secret garden, as if it had been born to find this hidden sanctuary.
I found it nestled beside a fig branch, resting on a mossy stone, marked simply: “To the girl who always felt considered but never chosen.”
In that instant, a wave of understanding washed over me. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this message was meant for me. It was a whisper from Him, carried through the quiet of dawn, bridging the space between longing and belonging.
Inside, the ink flowed like poetry and puzzle, part clue, part comfort. It read:
Case File: The Curious Spectacles of Almost
Status: Under Review
Suspect: Outdated Belief
Evidence: Broken lenses, blurry memories, recurring theme of not-enoughness.
And just like that, I felt it, a little flutter of something ancient and familiar, like a memory I had been carrying in my heart since childhood. I just knew this scroll had read my history. It had seen my pattern. And still, it was addressed to me. I knew that Jesus was inviting me to explore it with Him, not to accuse myself, not to relive the past, but to remember and see everything in a new light.
I followed a path of violet petals through the garden, half-sure He’d scattered them there just to be poetic, and found Him waiting by the arbor bench, already holding a magnifying glass in one hand and a second teacup labeled 'Stepped in Truth' in the other.
“You’re late, Detective,” He said with a twinkle, sipping casually. “But then again… so is clarity."
I laughed as I stood next to Him. "What's the case?" I asked with curiosity.
He unrolled the same scroll I’d found and tapped it. “The Curious Case of Almost.” He said with a hint of excitement in His voice. “We’re finally going to take a closer look at those well-worn lenses you’ve been relying on for so long.”
Clue 1: The Crunched Glasses on the Path.
We strolled through the garden beneath the fig leaves and olive branches. The atmosphere felt serene, as if even the breeze were paying attention. Sunlight filtered through the foliage, creating playful shadows on the ground, while the subtle fragrance of ripe fruit blended with the earthy scent of the soil, surrounding us in a tranquil embrace.
That’s when it happened: a sharp, piercing sound echoed through the silence. Crunch.
“You found them,” Jesus said gently.
I glanced down and noticed a tiny pair of glasses nestled in the moss beneath my sandal. They were delicate, with a wire frame, but were bent at the bridge. The left lens was cracked, while the right lens was obscured by a faint gray fog.
I froze. “Are these…?”
“The Spectacles of Almost,” Jesus said quietly, kneeling beside me.
I had worn these. Not literally, but through them I’d seen friendships dissolve, celebrations pass me by, opportunities glance in my direction but never land.
Clue 2: The Belief Beneath.
We sat on the edge of a stone bench beneath an arch of honeysuckle beside the broken glasses. I stared. They looked familiar. Almost too familiar. I held them in my lap like evidence.
Jesus sipped tea from a little cup labeled: 'Steeped in Grace, No Performance Required.' He tilted His head. “Do you remember the first time you thought ‘almost’ meant you were less?”
My lips parted, but nothing came out. Just the ache. I didn’t need to name one moment; there were many.
Jesus smiled kindly. “You’ve worn them for years, you just didn’t know. It wasn’t always cruel. Sometimes it was subtle. A friend drifting away. A silence after a vulnerable share. Being the one people loved to ask for advice, but not the one they chose to truly see."
The glasses hadn’t shouted at me. They had whispered moments where love paused, people forgot to choose me, and I made up reasons to fill the silence.
The belief beneath it all? They taught me to measure connection like a risk, expecting absence, preparing for disappointment, bracing for letdowns with a practiced smile.
“You picked them up a long time ago," Jesus whispered. " Not on purpose, but in response. To moments where love paused, where kindness skipped you, where the room filled with warmth, but you felt it from the edge.”
“Why did they feel so familiar?” I asked hesitantly.
“Because they were formed during moments you didn’t understand,” Jesus said. “Moments when love passed you by, or someone didn’t choose you, and you quietly decided it must’ve been about you.
So you picked up these glasses. They whispered things like you’re almost enough, almost chosen, always considered, never claimed.”
He took the glasses and thoughtfully turned them over in His hand. Then, in a soft voice, He began to speak.
"There once was a girl who wore a pair of glasses she didn’t realize she had picked up. They were small, wire-framed, and damaged; the left lens was broken, while the right lens was clouded, tinted gray with faint fingerprints of sadness. She had found them on a path somewhere between being laughed with and being laughed at, somewhere between being invited and being politely forgotten. Little did she know, they would shape her story. These weren’t ordinary glasses; they were called the Spectacles of Almost. Almost enough. Almost seen. Almost loved in that way. Always considered, but never chosen. She wore them for so long that they felt like part of her skin. She interpreted kindness with hesitation, love with suspicion, and joy with a backup plan. Not because she didn’t want to believe in good things, but because believing felt risky. That’s where the mystery began."
“They made me so careful,” I whispered. Like I was always preparing for disappointment. Just in case.”
“Exactly,” He replied. “They trained you to interpret blessings with suspicion and connection with caution. Not because you were ungrateful,
but because you were trying to be safe.”
I swallowed. “But I’m tired of almost.”
He smiled widely. “Then it’s time for new lenses.”
Exhibit B: The New Glasses in the Satchel.
Jesus opened His satchel and revealed a silk-wrapped cloth. Inside was a stunning pair of glasses, round with modern, royal blue frames and lenses that gleamed like the first light of dawn, a rose-gold hue radiating warmth.
“These,” He said, “are the Lenses of the Chosen. Not almost. Not eventually. Not if I got it all together. But now. Already. Always. You were never an afterthought. You were Mine before you ever asked to be.”
“But Jesus,” I whispered, “what if I forget? What if I slip and start looking through the old ones again?”
He smiled, like someone who’s not worried at all. “Then remember the crunch beneath your foot. The way the light looked when you held truth in your hands. The way it felt when you knew you were chosen, without performance, without striving. And come find Me. I’ll be holding the new ones, always.”
I looked down at the broken pair; they had simply been with me for too long. They resonated with an underlying truth, not loudly, but steadily.
I looked down at the broken pair; they had been my loyal companions for far too long. Each fracture mirrored the countless moments I had relied on them, resonating with an underlying truth, quiet but steady.
Case Resolution: Evidence Bag & New Sight.
I turned the old glasses over one last time. “Do I throw them away?” I asked.
Jesus smiled and handed me an evidence bag, the kind detectives use to log what was once misunderstood.
“You don’t have to pretend it never hurt,” He said. “You’re just releasing its authority.”
I slid the broken spectacles into the bag, and we labeled it together:
Case File: Retired
Item: Spectacles of Almost
Truth: She was never overlooked. She just hadn’t seen clearly, until now.
As the rose-gold lenses settled over my eyes, the garden came into focus with a new kind of softness, like reality, but kinder. More secure. More true. And somewhere between the light and the fig leaves and the way Jesus looked at me like I was His beloved, it hit me: I don’t have to perform for God. I never did. I was never meant to live as if I were auditioning for His affection or trying to qualify for His promises. He didn’t choose me because of my flawless execution or spiritual résumé. He chose me because He loves me.
My place in His heart was not earned through perfection, effort, or striving. It was secured through my standing in Him. I’ve already been given full access, not because of my righteousness or ability, but because I belong to Him. Grace means I get to breathe, rest, and receive.
The pressure is off. I’m not trying to prove what’s already been purchased.
I’m not on the outside hoping to be enough. I’m already inside, seated with Christ, wrapped in the kind of love that doesn’t make me earn a thing.
The case was closed. The girl was chosen. The glasses were gone.
And the view, ah the view…was finally clear.
Dear heart, allow the gentle voice of Jesus to resonate within your heart as He softly proclaims: “you are not just a mere background character in the grand tapestry of life. You are the cherished child I sought with relentless love and purpose. You are not merely 'almost' enough; you are wholly and completely Mine. Toss aside the old glasses of 'almost,' for they distort your view of who you truly are. Replace them with the clarity of My love, which reveals that you are fully embraced and equipped for a life abundant in purpose and joy. This truth is unwavering and absolute. Case closed.”
“You did not choose Me, but I chose you and appointed you…” John 15:16
