The God Who Sees Me in the Wilderness

There was a time when I would read the story of Sarai and Hagar and only see the obvious.

A woman longing for a child.

Another woman who became pregnant.

A household strained by infertility, resentment, power and pain.

But the more I sit with Genesis 16, the more I realise there is another story happening underneath the story.

It is a story about being seen.

And perhaps, in this season, that is the part of Hagar's story I need to remember most.

When being useful becomes your identity

Hagar enters Scripture as Sarai's Egyptian servant.

Sarai is unable to conceive, and she gives Hagar to Abram so that she might have children through her. Hagar becomes pregnant, and the dynamics of the household change almost immediately.

Genesis 16 tells us that Hagar begins to look at Sarai differently, Sarai deals harshly with her, and eventually Hagar runs away.

There is so much to unpack here: infertility, desperation, power, mistreatment, jealousy and the complicated ways that women can sometimes carry pain into their relationships with one another.

Infertility can bruise deeply.

And sometimes that pain can become weaponised — not necessarily because someone intends to be cruel, but because longing, comparison and disappointment can distort the way we see ourselves and others.

But there is another thing that strikes me about Hagar.

Before she was a mother, she was a person.

Before she was pregnant, she was a person.

Before she could fulfil a role in someone else's household, she was a person.

Yet imagine living in a place where your perceived value is attached primarily to what you can provide.

You are not really treated as home.

You feel like a house girl.

There is a difference.

A house is a place you occupy.

Home is a place where you belong.

And I wonder how many people have unknowingly carried the feeling of being a “house girl” into relationships, workplaces, churches and even their understanding of God — feeling valued for what they produce, provide, achieve or carry rather than simply being loved for who they are.

But Scripture tells us something different about our identity.

“I have called you by your name; you are mine.”
— Isaiah 43:1

Not I have called you by what you can produce.

Not I have called you by your usefulness.

Your name.

You.

And then Hagar enters the wilderness.

Genesis 16:7 says:

“The angel of the LORD found Hagar near a spring in the desert.”

I love that wording.

He found her.

Not when she had everything together.

Not when she had figured out where she was going next.

Not when she had arrived at her destination.

In the wilderness.

And there, Hagar encounters the God who sees.

She responds by giving God a name:

El Roi — the God who sees me.
(Genesis 16:13)

Think about that.

Hagar had been seen by people before.

Abram saw her.

Sarai saw her.

Her pregnancy was seen.

Her usefulness was seen.

Her mistakes were seen.

Her circumstances were seen.

But in the wilderness, Hagar discovers something altogether different:

God saw her.

Not simply what she was carrying.

Her.

The wilderness can make you question whether you are progressing

This is the part of Hagar's story that speaks to me most.

Hagar already knew she was pregnant.

But she did not yet know the full significance of what she was carrying.

God tells her that she will have a son, Ishmael, and speaks of the multitude of descendants that would come through him (Genesis 16:10–12).

She knew she was carrying a child.

She did not yet know she was carrying a future.

And sometimes I wonder whether that is what the wilderness does to us.

It makes us so focused on surviving the present that we cannot see the significance of what God is developing through it.

You are walking, but there are no obvious landmarks.

You are moving, but you cannot tell whether you are getting closer.

You are surviving, but survival does not always feel like progress.

You are carrying something, but you cannot yet see what it will become.

And then God meets you there.

The wilderness did not create the promise.

The wilderness revealed something about the promise.

That distinction matters.

Because sometimes we interpret our wilderness as evidence that we have missed God.

Sometimes leaving a situation feels like failure.

Sometimes being displaced feels like rejection.

Sometimes a closed door feels like proof that nothing is happening.

But Hagar's story reminds me that a wilderness encounter can become a place of revelation.

God sees beyond what you can currently see

There is another moment in Hagar's story that I find deeply moving.

In Genesis 21, Hagar is once again in the wilderness with Ishmael.

She has run out of water.

She places Ishmael under a bush and moves away because she cannot bear to watch him die.

And again, God hears.

The angel of God calls to Hagar and asks:

“What is the matter, Hagar?”
— Genesis 21:17

Her name.

Again.

God sees her.

God hears her.

And then God opens her eyes to a well of water.

The well was there.

But she could not see it.

That detail has stayed with me.

Sometimes the answer is not that God suddenly creates something that was never there.

Sometimes He opens our eyes to what we could not previously perceive.

“Then God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water.”
— Genesis 21:19

Perhaps that is a prayer for this season:

Lord, open my eyes.

Open my eyes to what You are doing.

Open my eyes to what You have already provided.

Open my eyes to the people You have placed around me.

Open my eyes to what I am carrying.

Open my eyes to what I have mistaken for rejection.

Open my eyes to the places where You have been present all along.

So, what does this mean for me?

As we enter another one of the “ember” months of the year, I find myself thinking about Hagar again.

September can make us feel as though the year is disappearing.

The calendar moves quickly.

The plans we made in January may look very different now.

Some prayers have been answered.

Some are still waiting.

Some things we thought would happen have not.

And some things we never expected have happened instead.

But Hagar reminds me:

Being in the wilderness does not mean being unseen.

You can be uncertain and still be held.

You can be grieving and still be guided.

You can be waiting and still be growing.

You can leave one place without knowing exactly where God is taking you next.

And you can carry something whose significance you do not yet understand.

The God who saw Hagar sees you.

The God who met her in the wilderness has not changed.

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.”
— Hebrews 13:8

So perhaps this is the encouragement I want to carry into this new month:

Don't despise the wilderness simply because you cannot yet see the destination.

Don't assume that because you cannot see progress, God is not moving.

Don't allow what you have been through to convince you that what you carry has no purpose.

And don't allow the way someone has treated you to become the definition of how God sees you.

You are not merely what you produce.

You are not merely what you provide.

You are not merely what you have survived.

You are seen.

You are known.

You are called by name.

And perhaps, just like Hagar, you may discover that the God who meets you in the wilderness is also the God who opens your eyes to what was there all along.

El Roi, the God who sees me.

May we enter this new season knowing that even when we cannot see the way forward, we are never outside the sight of God.

A prayer for the season ahead

Father,

Thank You for being the God who sees.

When I feel overlooked, remind me that I am known by You.

When I feel displaced, remind me that I am still held by You.

When I cannot see what You are doing, give me eyes to perceive.

When I am carrying something I do not yet understand, give me patience to trust You with it.

And when I find myself in the wilderness, help me not to confuse silence with absence.

Teach me to recognise You there.

Open my eyes to the wells You have already provided, the people You have already placed around me, and the purposes You are developing within me.

May this new month not simply be another page on the calendar, but another opportunity to walk with You with greater trust, greater obedience and greater understanding.

You are El Roi — the God who sees me.

Amen.