Last spring I bought a 1968 station wagon. It was a in terrific shape and had been stored in dry garages in and around Los Angeles all of its life.

In May I flew to Southern California to drive the car 3,500 miles back to Detroit. I had been assured by the seller that the car was well-maintained and that a mechanic had gone over it and deemed it road worthy for the trip. I even called the mechanic myself to make sure everything was tip-top.

Boy, what a trip it was! I drove through deserts, over mountains, and across plains, where the speed limit was often 80 miles per hour. The car performed just fine, and after 3 days of 15 hour per day driving, I arrived home.

Two days later I drove a mile and got a flat.

A tow truck came and the driver changed my tire. I asked him what I had run over and if the tire could be repaired. He took his baseball hat off, scratched his head, and said, “I don’t know how to tell you this sir, but these tires are about 20 years old and all of them need to be replaced, I hope you’re not driving far on them.”

My eyes were immediately opened, not only to the condition of my ‘new’ tires, but of how grateful to God I was that I arrived home in one piece.

Eye-opening events like this happen all the time.

We usually dread them, but they’re always good for us. For the truth, as distasteful and unwelcomed as it can be, is ultimately very good for us.

Let’s face it, our biggest problem is that we don’t know we have a problem. And when our eyes are opened to it we’ve taken a first step toward addressing it, and are thus on our way to further wholeness.

Sunday’s gospel is about blindness, and the sermon is about the most dangerous prayer we can pray: Lord, open my eyes. As a precursor, let us ask the Almighty for the courage and the wisdom to pray in this way, and even more so, to act appropriately on the newness that comes before our eyes.