Everywhere you travel in Burundi the streets are full of people walking. Carrying goods to and from the market. The better off have bicycles to use; the loads they carry are huge. You become used to this sight and yet never quite accustomed to it because always there are fascinating new sights that occur. Some of these stick, like the blind man walking. We only saw him for a few seconds as we drove through his small village. He was old; on his head he was carrying a very large pot which he held with his right hand. In his left hand was his long stick with which he swept the street before him guiding him down the slope along the edge of the road. His eyelids were closed. A few seconds and we had driven by never to see him again. He could never see us. No doubt his hearing told him a large 4×4 was driving past him. He trusted the driver to take care; he would have taken care himself. What help others might give him in this village is unknown. Whether or not he has a family who care and support I have no idea. What I know is that the image has lived with me of a man determined to go on; battling against the odds; a man who somehow inspires me to be continually grateful for sight, for a society that seeks to treat the disabled well, but regularly fails. A man who takes me back to a blind man sat by the side of a pool whom Jesus meets and talks with, then puts mud made from his own spit and the soil on his eyes and tells him to go and wash. A blind man who trusts in the word of this man and discovers sight. I doubt this Burundian man will ever see with his eyes but somehow I pray he will know the sight that Jesus brings that gives the light of life.