October 2, 2017
It used to scare me: the idea that God saw everything I did, even in secret.
When I was little, I thought of God sort of like Santa Claus. He knew when I was awake and sleeping; when I was good and bad. As an early teenager, my image of God morphed into more of a Big Brother Eye-in-the-Sky, waiting for me to do something wrong.
Either way, I was scared of God. I thought He was out to get me.
Somewhere in my early 20’s, my idea of who God is radically shifted. I began to long to spend time with Him in the Bible, learning through ancient stories the goodness of God. During that time, I realized what a blessing it is that He sees me, even in my secret places.
For three years, I lived alone as I worked full time and went to college full time. It was easy to get discouraged. No one saw my late nights and early mornings; the 13-hour workdays at the hospital and classes stacked back-to-back on my days off. No one saw my faithfulness in attempt to build a future.
No one but God—and where I once felt judgement, I suddenly found comfort. He knew my pain and frustration, my exhaustion and every tiny success. During this time, I came to realize that I did not need the world to see me; I just needed God to see me.
In Him, I am seen and known and loved—and that has made all the difference in my life.
Today, I made breakfasts and packed lunches for tiny humans who ran out the door and did not say thank you. This afternoon, I am folding laundry and washing dishes, and no one will ever notice how I spent my day. Later, I will make snacks and help with homework and play tag until dinnertime, and it is all just expected at this point. This evening, dinner will be on the table and reading logs will be signed, and no one will stop to say, “I know how hard you’ve worked today.”
And that is okay—because all day long, I am focusing on the One who does see me. In the midst of the mundane, God meets me. He whispers promises to me over endless loads of laundry and I speak praise back to Him, reciting Psalms from wrinkled pages with soapy hands.
There is a holiness in this space of being unseen, except by God, and I am finding myself resting into learning Whose eyes matter.