"The God Who Sees Me"

There are days I don’t feel like I’m falling apart, I feel like I’m fading. I’m still doing what needs to be done. Still showing up. Still answering people. Still keeping the train moving. But inside, something feels thin and tender, like I’ve been strong for too long without being cared for in return. The weariness isn’t only from the schedule. It’s from the emotional weight, being the dependable one, the flexible one, the one who adjusts, the one who keeps her feelings tucked away so everyone else can stay comfortable. On days like that, a question slips into my chest and sits there heavy: Does anyone actually see me… or do they only see what I can do?

That question is why Hagar’s story doesn’t feel distant to me. It feels like a mirror. Hagar didn’t start her story with options. She was a servant in someone else’s house, living under decisions she didn’t get to make. Then, she became part of a plan that wasn’t her idea. Sarah was hurting. Abraham agreed. And Hagar became the answer to their problem, useful, convenient, and unseen as a person. There’s a particular ache that comes from realizing you’re being treated like a solution instead of a soul. Like your value is measured by what you can carry, what you can produce, what you can fix.

Hagar becomes pregnant, and the atmosphere shifts. The Bible says Sarah dealt harshly with her, and Hagar ran away. I can almost feel the mixture of emotions in that one sentence, fear, humiliation, frustration, confusion. Running is what you do when staying feels unbearable. Running is what you do when you’re trapped in a space that keeps reminding you,  you’re powerless. Running is what you do when you’re tired of swallowing your hurt.

So Hagar ends up in the wilderness. Not a cozy, poetic wilderness, an exposed place. A place with no cover. No plan. No security. Just heat and questions and a future that feels like it’s closing in. The wilderness is where you realize how much you’ve been holding together, because the moment you stop, everything you’ve been suppressing starts to rise. It’s the place where you can’t keep performing. You don’t have the energy to keep explaining. You can’t keep pretending you’re fine.

And that’s where God meets her. An angel of the Lord finds her, not after she proves herself, not after she gets it together, but right there, dusty and overwhelmed and undone. God speaks to her like she matters. Not like she’s a problem in someone else’s story. He calls her by name. He asks her where she’s coming from and where she’s going, questions that sound simple, but feel tender when you’re lost. Then He gives her a promise. Not a quick fix, but a future. Not shame, but attention. Not rejection, but presence.

In that moment, Hagar does something I love, she names God from her lived experience with Him. She calls Him El Roi, “the God who sees me.” Not the God who saw Sarah. Not the God who only speaks to Abraham. The God who saw her.

Years later, Hagar’s story gets heavy again. She is sent away once more, this time with her child. She wanders until the water runs out. When she can’t bear what she thinks is coming, she places her son under a bush and steps away because she can’t watch him die. That moment isn’t a lack of faith, it’s a picture of a woman at the edge of her capacity. It’s what it looks like when your resources are gone and your courage is empty and you have nothing left to offer but tears.

Again, God hears her. God opens her eyes to provision that was already there. God makes a way in the wilderness. God reminds her, without words, I am still watching. I am still with you. I am still El Roi.

That’s what grace is to me now. Not only forgiveness for my failures, but tenderness for my frailty. Not only strength for my calling, but care for my humanity. Grace is God meeting me in the middle, when I’m not at my best, when I’m not polished, when I’m not sure what to do next and saying, You are not invisible to Me. And on the days I feel myself fading, I borrow Hagar’s name for God and whisper it like a lifeline: El Roi… You are the God who sees me.

Prayer

God, You are the One who sees me. You know what I carry and how heavy it feels. I confess I have tried to push through without pausing to receive Your help. Let Your grace be sufficient for me today, strength for my mind, peace for my heart, and provision for my needs. Meet me in this wilderness and remind me I’m not alone.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

God sees me. God helps me. God’s grace is enough for me today.