When I was 11, I began having difficulty seeing the blackboard at school. My surname began with "A," so I often sat in the front row and could see pretty well. But from the back of the room, the writing on the board was a blur to me.

I was diagnosed as near-sighted, and my parents bought me a pair of eyeglasses. I could see very clearly when I wore them, but I also thought they made me look foolish. I hated wearing glasses, even though my parents insisted that I must.

So whenever my parents were around, I would wear the glasses. But just as soon as they were not looking, I took them off and put them in my pocket. The trouble is that I put them in my hip pocket. One day I sat down and snapped the glasses in two, at the bridge between the lenses.

When I came home that evening, the first thing my father said to me was, "Tommy, where are your glasses?" I had to tell him what had happened.

"Is this the way you treat your glasses?" he scolded me. "Is this the way you wear them, in your pocket?"

My father was quite angry. He was a heavy smoker and a hard drinker, very demanding and quite capable of rage. Sometimes he beat me physically, whipping me with a belt when I misbehaved. He also beat me mentally, abusing me with harsh words for my failings and any opinions I had which differed from his own. He knew exactly how to push my buttons, such as making me feel I had failed for being a "B" student instead of getting straight A's. He loved me, but he had tremendous difficulty expressing it. And when I failed....

Fortunately for me, his anger passed quickly on this occasion and he bought me new frames. I was happy to have escaped the worst of it, but I still didn't want to wear the glasses. I continued to remove them whenever he was not around.

Sure enough, history repeated itself. One day I put them in my hip pocket. I sat on them again, and they snapped right down the middle.

That's stupidity, of course. How could I make the same mistake twice, especially after my father had been so angry? Again, I had to face him.

And he punished me this time.

First he beat me physically till I couldn't even cry anymore. Then he humiliated me by making me wear the taped-up glasses as a punishment.

After what seemed like forever, I eventually got another set of frames. You can bet I took better care of those. I never again put them in my hip pocket. Oh no. I put them in my shirt pocket. I made sure I always had them with me, and I wore them whenever my father was around. I took extra care not to break them, too.

Then one day when I was 12 or 13, I went hiking alone in the woods near our home. Of course, I wasn't wearing my glasses. It was starting to get dark and time to go home. I reached into my shirt pocket and ... you guessed it! The glasses were gone. I felt my other pockets, but the glasses were not there either.

Imagine how my heart sank! If my father had beat me so badly for breaking them, what would he do if I lost them, lenses and all?

I was in a panic. I couldn't go home. I had walked all over those woods during the day. The glasses could have fallen out anywhere. What's more, it was getting dark, and my eyesight really was bad. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack at night. What was I going to do?

With tears in my eyes, I had only one hope. I looked up to heaven and I prayed. I prayed for a miracle: "Oh God, help me. Help me find my glasses. Please. I can't face my father without them. Don't let me be beat like that again. Help me! Please!"

I was determined to retrace every step. I would spend all night crawling on my hands and knees if need be. I just had to find those glasses.

I started to walk back into the woods. And that's when it happened. I stopped. I looked down. And you know what was on the ground in front of me? Right there on the path were my glasses. They were not broken, or damaged, or anything. I had called on God. I had prayed for a miracle, and there it was, right at my feet. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I swore on the spot that I would wear glasses the rest of my life.

And I have worn them ever since.

I never told anyone this story. It just seemed too incredible. In 1982, my father died without ever knowing of the incident. He probably thought he had taught me a lesson with his punishments. And in a certain sense, he had. But now you know the real reason why I wear glasses. You also know why I believe so strongly in miracles and magic, in faith and the power of prayer.

TAJ is the publisher of Legacy Memoirs. This story was recorded on audio cassette, transcribed and edited for a proposed set of children's books, The WHY Series.