And the blind received sight

If you were to ask me three months ago what my dream job would be, I would have looked you in the eye and said I wasn't exactly sure, but it certainly wasn't the one I had now.

Three months on my response has changed a little.

Don't get me wrong, 'Casual Admin Assistant' isn't a title I hope to cling to for the rest of my life, but I wouldn't be as vehement as my January self would have been. I would still tell you that I wasn't exactly sure what the entire long-term plan was, but I would also tell you how thankful I am to have had this job, even if it was just for a few short months.

I am currently a booking coordinator at the hospital in my town. I book patients and do general admin at the eye department for fifteen hours a week. It's often unglamorous and the work varies between being so fast-paced I can't get it all done and mind-numbingly slow, but it's my job and I've grown to love it.

I started working in this department exactly three days after returning from spending two months overseas. I was jet-lagged through most of the training period and as I sat, blurry-eyed, and listened to my boss talk, memories of Europe still fresh in my mind, I wondered how I was going to get through the next few months.

I wish I had given myself time to get used to being back in my regular world; that I had recognised that I wasn't always going to be in a confusing post-travel state of mind. Instead, I allowed those jet-lagged, wonderlust-influenced thoughts to stay with me for too long. I think they were part of the reason I found the job unreasonably hard and I was unreasonably afraid during my first few weeks.

I did my job, but I did it fearing that I was going to mess up at any moment. I was too afraid to go in and speak with the doctors out of fear that I would interrupt their "important" work; too afraid to speak up in meetings and too afraid to answer the phone out of fear I wouldn't be able to respond to the patients' queries. I was so fearful I considered quitting. I thank God He didn't let me.

Because eventually -- and this is always the way -- I found my rhythm. I slowly realised that my work, in its own small way, was important, too, and that by interrupting the doctors I was actually best serving the patients. I realised that if I didn't speak up at meetings, things couldn't change for the better. And I realised that even if I didn't have the answer right at that very moment, I could always find it later.

The job went from being unbearable, to endurable to one of the brightest parts of my week. Now when I go in I say hello to all the staff on the way to my desk (doctors included); I do my job as competently and humbly as I can and, best of all, I do it knowing that it's where I'm meant to be for this season.

By the end of May this job I've grown to love won't be mine any more. They've found someone who will take over full-time and so I'll say my goodbyes and move on to wherever else they need me. I know this is right -- "to everything there is a season" and this season has come to its end.

I will miss my people; the patients most of all. The majority of them are elderly; in their seventies, eighties and nineties. They come in with or without family; some the picture of health, others hunched over in pain. They come, most often, with gracious words and a smile for the young booking lady at the high desk. They come and, with their words and actions, serve me.

"Where are you from, love?" "Had a busy day so far?" These are the things they ask as they sit, experiencing no small amount of discomfort from their procedure. Some stick to small talk, commenting on the weather or the shoes I'm wearing; others are more open. They tell me about their grandchildren and plans for big birthdays and how they used to work in the hospital years ago, before husbands and children came along.

As they speak, God opens my blind eyes. This is what work is about, He says. You're here to serve. This is why I show up at 8 o'clock in the morning: to serve. To serve both the God I love and the people made in His image.

The patients may go home thinking that they're the ones who've regained their sight for another month, but they're wrong -- I'm the one who walks home seeing.

I see that hard first weeks give way to glorious seventh weeks if only you stay long enough get to them. I see that doctors, skilled and intelligent though they may be, are still people who have bad days and worries and burdens. I see that people, all people, have their own unique stories with their own unique sorrows and joys and that they'll share them with you if only you're willing to listen.

I am willing. I will listen. And I can't wait to see more.