There is a name for God in the Bible that only one person ever used. Just one. Not Abraham. Not Moses. Not David. Not any of the prophets.

A slave girl named Hagar.

Pregnant. Alone. Running through the desert because the woman she belonged to was making her life a living hell. Invisible to everyone who was supposed to care about her. Discarded by Abraham, who was the father of her child. Used as someone else's solution to someone else's problem.

And God found her by a spring of water in the wilderness and called her by name.

She answered Him with a name of her own.

"You are the God who sees me." (Genesis 16:13 NLT)

El Roi. The God Who Sees Me.

Not the God who sees everything, although He does. Not the God who sees the big picture, although He does that too. The God who sees ME. Specific. Personal. Individual. The God who sees the particular Hagar, in her particular pain, in her particular wilderness.

This article is the second in the Loved series. And it's for everyone who has ever felt invisible. Who has carried everyone else's burdens while nobody asked how they were doing. Who has smiled through the pain because nobody seemed to notice the pain was there.

El Roi sees you. He always has.

Hagar: The Woman Nobody Saw

To understand what El Roi means, you have to understand what Hagar lived through. Because this name wasn't born from theology. It was born from pain.

Hagar was an Egyptian slave. She belonged to Sarah. She didn't choose her life. She didn't choose her master. She didn't choose any of it. She was property.

Then Sarah had an idea. She couldn't get pregnant, and God had promised Abraham descendants, so Sarah decided to use Hagar as a surrogate. Not asked. Used. "Go sleep with my servant so I can have a child through her." And Abraham agreed.

Nobody asked Hagar what she wanted. Nobody considered her feelings. She was a tool for someone else's problem.

She got pregnant. And things got worse. Sarah became jealous of the very situation she created. She started treating Hagar so harshly that a pregnant slave woman decided that running into the desert alone was better than staying in that house. Think about how bad things had to be for a pregnant woman to choose the wilderness over the home she knew.

Used. Discarded. Abused. Invisible. That was Hagar's resume when God found her.

The God Who Comes to the Invisible

Here's what gets me about this story. Abraham and Sarah were the "chosen ones." They had the covenant, the promise, the future. Hagar was a footnote. A plot device in someone else's story.

But God didn't go looking for Abraham and Sarah that day. He went looking for Hagar.

"The angel of the LORD found Hagar beside a spring of water in the wilderness, along the road to Shur." (Genesis 16:7 NLT)

Found. Not stumbled upon. Not happened to notice. Found. The same word. The same intentionality as Adam in the garden. God went to the wilderness on purpose to find the woman everyone else had forgotten.

And the first thing He did was use her name. "Hagar." Not "slave." Not "servant." Not "Sarai's property." Hagar.

In a world that only saw her function, God saw her identity.

A Personal Word: He Saw Me in Destin

I want to share something with you because I think it'll help land what God's seeing actually looks like in real life.

I don't think I've ever felt like I could hide from God. He's all-knowing, after all. That's not where the lie usually lands for me. Where the lie lands is in those moments when I feel completely lost and I assume God has lost track of me right along with me.

December of 2022 was one of those moments.

My ex-wife had just told me she wanted a divorce. My whole world was unraveling. And I did what a lot of wounded people do. I ran. I fled to Destin, Florida and tried to outwork the pain by selling roofs door to door. I figured if I stayed busy enough, far enough, distracted enough, I could outrun what was happening to me.

I was wrong about all of it.

God shut every single thing down. The roofing work stopped. The money started running out. I got stuck in an Airbnb in Destin for a full month with no plan and no path forward. Lost. Broken. Hurting. I cried out to God from that little rental, not because I was being spiritual but because I had absolutely nowhere else to turn.

And He saw me.

He had never taken His eyes off me. Not for one second.

He whispered into the chaos and told me to call my friends in Colorado. So I did. And they took me in. And the next chapter of my healing started in the mountains of Colorado with free rent and people who knew my story and loved me anyway.

I wasn't hiding. I was lost. There's a difference. And God doesn't just look for the people hiding in shame. He tracks down the ones who are lost in the wreckage and have stopped believing anyone is still paying attention.

He sees you in your Destin too. Whatever your Destin is.

What Being Seen Actually Means

Being seen is not the same as being watched. God isn't a security camera. He isn't monitoring you from a distance, taking notes, checking boxes.

Being seen means being known. In your specific, particular, individual reality. Not the version you show the world. Not the Sunday morning version. Not the social media version. The real version. The 3am version. The version that nobody else checks on.

Being seen means your pain registers. It matters. It's not invisible just because nobody else noticed. God saw Hagar when Abraham packed her a sack lunch and sent her to die. He saw me in a Destin Airbnb running out of money and hope at the same time. He's seeing you right now. Wherever you're reading this. Whatever you're carrying.

Being seen means you're not a footnote. You're not a supporting character in someone else's story. You have a name. You have a future. And the God of the universe is paying attention to YOUR story specifically.

And Here's the Part Most of Us Can't Receive

So God sees you. Got it. But what does He think when He sees you?

This is where most of us start to flinch. Because seeing isn't the same as enjoying. A boss can see you and still be unimpressed. A parent can see you and still be disappointed. A spouse can see you and still wish you were different.

So when we hear "God sees you," part of us braces. Because being seen by someone who is judging you isn't actually a gift. It's a threat.

This is where we have to camp out in one of the most under-preached verses in the Bible.

"For the LORD your God is living among you. He is a mighty savior. He will take delight in you with gladness. With his love, he will calm all your fears. He will rejoice over you with joyful songs." (Zephaniah 3:17 NLT)

Read that again. Slowly. Word by word.

He will take delight in you with gladness. He will calm all your fears. He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.

God sings over you.

Not because you earned it. Not because you had a good quiet time this morning. Not because you finally got your act together. He sings over you because you exist. Because you're His. Because He made you and He likes what He made.

He doesn't just pursue, stay, and see you out of duty. He does it because He delights in you. He actually, genuinely, with full knowledge of everything you've ever done and ever will do, likes you.

The God Who Tolerates You vs. The God Who Enjoys You

Let me ask you something and I want you to be honest. When you think about how God feels about you, which picture shows up first?

Picture A: God sitting on a throne, arms crossed, tolerating you. He loves you because He has to. He committed to the covenant and He's a God of His word. But He's not exactly thrilled about it. It's more like a parent at a school recital who showed up out of obligation and keeps checking their watch. Present, but not enjoying it.

Picture B: God leaning forward, eyes lit up, grinning, singing. Not tolerating you. Enjoying you. Not enduring your existence. Celebrating it. Not waiting for you to be better. Delighting in who you already are.

Most of us live in Picture A. We know God loves us. We just don't believe He likes us. There's a Grand Canyon between those two things, and most Christians live their whole lives stuck in the gap.

We believe in a God who saves us. We struggle to believe in a God who enjoys us.

That belief that God merely tolerates you didn't come from Scripture. It came from experience. If your parents loved you conditionally, you learned that love is earned through performance. If you grew up in a church that emphasized sin more than grace, you learned that God's primary posture toward you is disappointment. If you were in a relationship where love was withheld as punishment, you learned that love can be used as a weapon.

All of those experiences wrote a story on your heart: You are tolerated. Not delighted in. Endured. Not enjoyed. Loved out of obligation. Not out of gladness.

That story is a lie. And Zephaniah 3:17 is the truth that kills it.

A Personal Word: Poppy

Let me tell you about my grandson Remington.

For the past several months, while my son David was away at Army boot camp, I've been living with my daughter in law and my grandson Remy in our small rental home in Fort Worth. Remy is autistic. And whatever aspects of autism a person can carry, he got all the loving ones.

The kid has super hearing. I'm convinced of it.

Every single time I leave my room, every single time, he hears me open the french doors. I have actually tested this. I have tried to open my doors as slowly and quietly as humanly possible to see if I could sneak out without him noticing. I have failed every single attempt. Not once has it worked. Not one time.

The moment those doors crack open, no matter where he is in the house, no matter what he's doing, he screams at the top of his lungs:

"POPPY!!!!!!!"

And then he runs from wherever he is and tackles me with a hug and a kiss.

Friend, that's delight.

He doesn't care what kind of day I'm having. He doesn't care what kind of day he's having. He doesn't check to see if I've earned the welcome. He doesn't ask me to perform first. He doesn't measure my mood and adjust accordingly. He just hears those doors open and screams my name like it's the best thing that has happened to him all day.

Every. Single. Time.

I think about that and I think about Zephaniah 3:17. He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.

That's what God is doing. Right now. With you. Every time you "leave your room" and step into His awareness, He's not weighing your day, your performance, your spiritual scorecard. He hears the doors open and He screams your name.

I know that sounds irreverent. I don't care. It's the closest picture I've got for what God actually feels about you. He's the Father at the door who hears you coming and lights up before you even round the corner.

If a two-year-old autistic boy can love his Poppy that wildly, you'd better believe the One who made him loves you more.

The Prodigal Son: A Story About a Father Who Ran

Jesus told a story in Luke 15 that most people call the parable of the prodigal son. But it's really a story about the father.

A son takes his inheritance early, which in that culture was basically telling his father "I wish you were dead." He leaves. He wastes everything. He ends up feeding pigs and eating what the pigs eat. He hits absolute bottom.

And he decides to go home. Not with confidence. With a rehearsed speech. "Father, I've sinned against heaven and against you. I'm no longer worthy to be called your son. Make me one of your hired servants." That's the contract mindset. I'll earn my way back. I'll work off what I owe. Just give me a job.

But the father had a different plan.

"So he returned home to his father. And while he was still a long way off, his father saw him coming. Filled with love and compassion, he ran to his son, embraced him, and kissed him." (Luke 15:20 NLT)

While he was still a long way off. The father was watching. Waiting. Scanning the horizon. He never stopped looking. And the moment he saw his son, he didn't walk. He ran.

Dignified men didn't run in that culture. Running meant lifting your robes, exposing your legs, looking foolish in front of everyone. This father didn't care. His son was coming home and dignity could wait.

The son started his speech. "Father, I've sinned, I'm not worthy..." The father didn't even let him finish. He called for the best robe. A ring. Sandals. A party.

That's not tolerance. That's not obligation. That's delight. That's a father who has been waiting for this moment, who has been aching for this reunion. He throws a party. Because his son is home. Because his son is alive. Because his son EXISTS and is standing in front of him and nothing else matters.

The son expected a contract. The father gave him a covenant. The son expected to earn his way back. The father gave him everything before he could finish his apology.

That's the Father who delights.

That's Poppy seeing Remy round the corner. Times infinity.

The Hardest Part: Letting Delight In

Here's the thing about delight. You can't earn it. And for people who have spent their whole lives earning love, that's maddening.

You can earn respect. You can earn admiration. You can earn approval. But delight? Delight is what a parent feels looking at their sleeping toddler. The toddler didn't do anything. They're literally unconscious. And the parent is overwhelmed with joy just looking at them.

That's how God feels about you. And your first instinct is probably to argue with it.

"Yeah, but He doesn't know what I did last week." He does. He's singing anyway.

"Yeah, but if He really knew me..." He really knows you. More than you know yourself. Still singing.

"Yeah, but I haven't earned..." Exactly. You haven't earned it. That's the whole point. Delight can't be earned. It can only be received.

And receiving is the hardest thing for most of us. Because receiving means being vulnerable. It means standing still long enough to let love land. It means not deflecting, not minimizing, not changing the subject. Just standing there, letting the Father sing over you, and believing that He means it.

If you're sitting there thinking "that can't be right," that's the wound talking. Let the truth be louder today.

A Practice for This Week

Two simple practices for this week.

First: Every morning, look in the mirror and say out loud: "God sees me today. And He delights in me. Not because of what I'll do. Because of who I am."

If that feels uncomfortable, good. It's supposed to. You're rewiring decades of performance-based worth with about six seconds of truth. Do it anyway. Every day. Even when you don't believe it. Especially when you don't believe it.

Second: Sometime this week, find five minutes to sit in silence and imagine God singing over you. Not a worship song. Not a hymn. A lullaby. The kind a parent sings to a child who is safe and loved and doesn't have to do anything but be held. Let yourself be held. Even if it's just for five minutes.

He sees you. He's not turning away. And He likes what He sees.

You Don't Have to Do This Alone

This is the second article in the Loved: The Father Pursued You, the Son Found You, the Spirit Stayed series. We just finished the Heart of the Father. Next we move to the Mind of the Son, which is going to look at how Jesus moved toward the mess and never asked anyone to clean up first.

If you want to do this work in community instead of by yourself, come join the Smalley Sojourners. We meet twice a week on Google Meet, encourage each other through a WhatsApp group, and we are walking through this exact study together in real time. There is still room for you to join us.

You can join at smalleyinstitute.com/offers/FEfWKzN7/checkout.

Or text me at (303) 435-2630 or email [email protected] if you want to talk through any of this. I read every message.

Where have you felt invisible lately? Where have you felt tolerated instead of delighted in? Drop a comment, send me a note, or just say "me too" if any of this landed. You're not alone in this.