Does God really see me?
I used to roll my eyes at 5 a.m.
Not because I was tired—though I was—but because I could hear her.
My mother. The prayer warrior. Already up, already crying out to God in a voice that filled the house like incense.
Loud. Bold. Unapologetic.
If you’ve ever met my mother and heard her pray, then… you know.
Most kids woke up to alarm clocks. I woke up to intercession.
If it wasn’t the early morning prayers, it was the Saturday night church-wide prayer meetings. Or the seemingly endless family prayer times where I’d sneak glances at the clock while my mom cried out to God for her children—silently wondering when we’d finally say “Amen.”
At the time, it all felt like too much.
But now?
Now, in this wilderness season I never saw coming, I hear those prayers echoing in my soul.
She taught me many things about the Lord—but one name she repeated often in her prayers has taken on new meaning for me: El Roi — the God who sees me.
I didn’t realize how deeply I needed to believe that until everything in my life started to feel... invisible.
Lost. Rejected. Forgotten.
Like I didn’t matter. Like the work I was doing didn’t matter.
If I’m honest, I’ve been asking that very question:
Does God actually see me? Does He see what I’m going through?
That’s when I was led to Genesis 16.
That’s when I met Hagar again.
If you haven’t read her story, friend, I encourage you to take a moment to do so.
It’s the story of a woman who ran to the wilderness. Away from pain. Away from a messy, complicated situation. She was pregnant, mistreated, misunderstood — and had no clear plan. Just distance between herself and her pain.
She wasn’t looking for God.
She was just trying to survive.
And yet… He found her.
Right there by a spring in the desert — when she had no direction, no protection, and no one to advocate for her — God called her by name:
“Hagar, slave of Sarai, where have you come from, and where are you going?” (Genesis 16:8 NIV)
He knew who she was.
He knew what she had been through.
And still, He asked — not because He needed information, but because He wanted relationship.
God saw her.
Not just the outer woman — pregnant, weary, displaced.
But the inner woman — the one who had been used, overlooked, and cast aside.
The one who likely wondered if any of it even mattered.
And what did she say?
“You are the God who sees me [El Roi]… I have now seen the One who sees me.” (Genesis 16:13 NIV)
God knew where Hagar was all along.
He is, after all, omniscient (all knowing).
The same God who breathed galaxies into place and calls every star by name didn’t just “stumble upon” her in the wilderness. He pursued her.
But the moment wasn’t just about God seeing Hagar — it was about Hagar realizing she had been seen all along.
That verse lands differently when you’ve walked through a season that feels invisible.
Hagar wasn’t just seen — she saw the One who sees.
And that changed everything.
Honestly? That’s what I believe God is doing in me right now.
This season of feeling invisible isn’t punishment —it’s invitation.
An invitation to realize that God never stopped watching.
Never stopped caring.
Never lost sight of me.
Sometimes, the burdens we carry in the wilderness are invisible too — the weight of expectations, unspoken grief, the pressure to keep going when we’re barely holding it together.
Maybe for you, it’s the loneliness that comes with new motherhood.
Maybe it’s showing up for a job that drains you — wondering if any of it matters.
Maybe it’s navigating grief no one else sees.
Maybe you’re pouring yourself out for your family, your community, your students — and feeling like no one notices what it costs you.
Maybe it’s quiet battles with anxiety, shame, or doubt that you carry behind a tired smile.
Whatever it is — El Roi sees you.
Recently, I experienced this truth in a way I didn’t expect.
When my daughter was born last November, we were readmitted to the hospital for her to receive bilirubin treatment after we had already come home. She was only three days old. I was still healing, still bleeding, still exhausted. The room we were placed in was set up entirely for her care — and rightfully so — but there wasn’t much available for me. No place to rest, no relief from the pain, and no one checking on how I was doing. I was running on almost no sleep, getting up every two hours to feed her, trying to hold it all together.
Understandably, the nurses were focused on her needs — but I felt invisible.
Then came a nurse on the night shift. She came in quietly, gently. She saw not just a newborn in the bassinet, but a weary mother in the corner. Without hesitation, she told me to rest — to put my swollen feet up, to sleep. And every two hours that night, she came in and fed and held my daughter so I wouldn’t have to get up.
She didn’t just take care of my baby.
She took care of me.
She saw me.
And in that quiet act of kindness, I saw God. Not in a loud, dramatic way — but in a soft, unmistakable whisper: I see you, too.
That night reminded me of Hagar. Alone, hurting, running — and found by a God who called her by name. I think sometimes He sends people as reminders. Reminders that He is near, even here. Even in the wilderness. Even in a dim hospital room.
As I look back, I can see my mother’s prayers weren’t just background noise — they were the seeds.
Seeds that are just now beginning to bloom in the wilderness.
She believed I was seen, even when I didn’t.
And now, I’m starting to believe it too.
Reflection:
What burden are you carrying right now that no one else seems to notice — but you hope God does?
What would it mean for you to believe today, right where you are, that God sees you — not just your situation, but you?
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