Cleaning the Glasses

On disappointment, gratitude, and learning to see clearly again

Last week, while we were on holiday, Julian and I went out for a walk by the sea. The waves were crashing hard against the rocks. Dramatic, loud, and irresistible, they drew me in. I edged closer than was probably wise, trying to get what I thought would be a really good photograph. Then, not surprisingly, the sea had the last word. A wave surged in further than expected and I got pretty soaked.

It was funny, really. One of those moments where you laugh at yourself, shake it off, and keep going.

We walked on towards the Xemxija Heritage Trail. It led us onto an extraordinary stretch of Roman road and we were quite literally stepping back into history. Along the way, we came across an ancient apiary, a place built for beekeeping, dating back to around 300 BC.

A page from my ‘Drawn Days’ journal

You could see the human ingenuity and care embedded in it. It sat in an idyllic location, framed by carob trees and other vegetation, with views across the surrounding land and out over the bay beyond. Everything about it should have felt bright and expansive.

And yet, something felt off.

I was warm and comfortable, but what I was seeing didn’t feel that way. The landscape looked dreary and grey. The light felt flat. I couldn’t quite put it together. Why did everything seem so dull when it should have been bright?

There was a mismatch between what I felt and what I could see, and it unsettled me. I knew something didn’t add up. It wasn’t until I stopped and took my glasses off that I realised what was going on. They were filthy. The splash from the sea, mixed with salt and spray, had dried across the lenses and left a cloudy film.

My grubby glasses

I’d been looking at the world through fog.

When I cleaned them properly and put them back on, everything changed. The day wasn’t grey at all. It was bright, pleasant, full of warmth and detail that I simply hadn’t been able to see clearly before. And that’s when a thought landed with me.

In life, there have been moments when I’ve got close to things: friendships, situations, hopes. Not recklessly or wrongly, but vulnerably. And things didn’t go as I expected. Disappointments I didn’t plan for splashed back onto me. Nothing dramatic enough to shatter everything, but enough to leave a residue.

A film of disappointment. Unannounced. Quietly clouding my lenses. Enough to dull colour. Enough to make beauty harder to see. Enough to make hope feel further away than it really is.

That thought spoke deeply to me about my faith. About needing to reach out and ask for help. About admitting that I can’t always do it on my own. About learning to trust God to restore clarity when my vision is distorted. But it speaks more widely too. Disappointment is part of being human, and hope often needs tending.

What made the moment even more extraordinary was what happened next. We walked down the hill and stepped alongside the harbour. My glasses were clean. My vision was restored. And there it was: a huge, beautiful rainbow stretched across the port, arching over the water and the boats below. Completely unplanned. Completely unearned.

I smiled to myself. Because sometimes symbolism really does arrive unannounced.

I’ve used rainbows in my work before, often as a quiet reminder of hope in dark times. This one felt personal. It wasn’t just about hope existing. It was about hope becoming visible again, once my lens was clear.

As I think about moving forward, about not living life through a lingering film of disappointment, I’ve realised how important small, faithful practices will be. One thing I started on this holiday was a simple daily gratitude practice, with illustrations and words. Writing down one thing each day that I’m grateful for.

Drawing the ordinary things. Nothing polished or profound.

Noticing what I already have that makes me feel glad.

I know from experience, and from what I’ve written about before, that gratitude is one way I gently wipe my glasses clean. Not to deny pain. Not to pretend everything is fine. But to keep my vision honest and open.

Alongside that comes a quieter understanding of self-care. Not the bubble-bath version, but the real work of noticing what I need, naming it, and responding to myself with kindness. Another way of tending my lens.

Hope, I’m learning, isn’t always about changing the landscape. Sometimes it’s about tending to the way I see it.

Maybe the beauty hasn’t gone. Maybe the light is still there. Maybe the world isn’t as grey as it looks.

Sometimes, it’s time to clean the glasses.

If you’d like to share, I’d love to know what small practice is helping you tend hope right now. You can reply in the comments here, on my Facebook posts or message me privately.