The desert was loud that day.
Not with voices, not with music or storm, but with silence—the aching kind that makes your ears ring. Hagar sat on the dry earth, dust clinging to her skin like shame. She was a servant, a foreigner, a single woman carrying a child she hadn’t asked for. Rejected by her mistress, abandoned by stability, she’d run. But where do you go when you have no one? Every direction looked the same. Endless. Empty.
Except… God was there.
Not in some sweeping miracle or thunderclap from the sky. He came as a question, spoken by an angel: “Hagar, servant of Sarai, where have you come from, and where are you going?”
He knew her name.
In a world that used her, tossed her aside, and forgot her, God called her by her name. And before the conversation was over, Hagar would call Him something back—something no one had ever called Him before: El Roi. “She gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: ‘You are the God who sees me,’ for she said, ‘I have now seen the One who sees me’” (Genesis 16:13, NIV).
It was the only time in the Bible someone would use those exact words—El Roi, the God who sees me. A simple servant girl became the theologian of all who feel invisible.
Maybe you’ve felt that too. Maybe you’ve sat alone with a kind of sorrow you can’t explain to anyone—not even yourself. Your hands do the work, your face forces the smile, but your soul aches for someone to look deeply and truly see you. Not for your title. Not for your usefulness. Not for your performance. But for who you are when you’re not trying.
If that’s you, don’t miss Hagar’s story. Because this moment shows us something about God that tender theology alone could never say.
God sees before He saves. He notices before He changes our circumstance. He meets Hagar in the wilderness. He doesn’t wait until she walks back, cleans up, gets it all together. He finds her fleeing. Frightened. Untethered. And He names her value long before her life looks valuable again.
That’s who El Roi is.
It’s easy to believe that God sees the pastors, the missionaries, the ones whose lives are painted in ministry and sermons and songs. But Hagar did none of that. She was invisible to everyone else—and it was there, in her forgotten place, that God drew near.
Not once does the text say she saw God’s face. But she knew she had been noticed, and that was enough to keep going.
I once sat with a woman on a church bench—her voice small, her eyes searching. “I just want to know,” she whispered, “if God even knows I exist. I pray and get nothing. I cry, and it feels like the ceiling catches my tears before heaven does.”
It took a minute. Then I remembered Hagar.
“She named God,” I said gently. “Not the other way around. And she named Him the God who sees.”
The woman nodded slowly, tears falling—not in despair this time, but in recognition.
God may not always speak the way we want. He may not change our situation overnight. But He sees. And being seen—really seen—changes everything.
So if you’re in a place right now where the world doesn’t notice, and the silence is loud, hear this:
He knows your name.
He sees your struggle, your quiet sacrifices, your nights of doubt, your small moments of courage. You are not hidden. You are not forgotten.
El Roi still walks the desert paths, still finds the ones who flee, still speaks with gentleness and care to the broken and the brave.
He saw Hagar.
He sees you.
And that’s enough to begin again.
The desert was loud that day.
Not with voices, not with music or storm, but with silence—the aching kind that makes your ears ring. Hagar sat on the dry earth, dust clinging to her skin like shame. She was a servant, a foreigner, a single woman carrying a child she hadn’t asked for. Rejected by her mistress, abandoned by stability, she’d run. But where do you go when you have no one? Every direction looked the same. Endless. Empty.
Except… God was there.
Not in some sweeping miracle or thunderclap from the sky. He came as a question, spoken by an angel: “Hagar, servant of Sarai, where have you come from, and where are you going?”
He knew her name.
In a world that used her, tossed her aside, and forgot her, God called her by her name. And before the conversation was over, Hagar would call Him something back—something no one had ever called Him before: El Roi. “She gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: ‘You are the God who sees me,’ for she said, ‘I have now seen the One who sees me’” (Genesis 16:13, NIV).
It was the only time in the Bible someone would use those exact words—El Roi, the God who sees me. A simple servant girl became the theologian of all who feel invisible.
Maybe you’ve felt that too. Maybe you’ve sat alone with a kind of sorrow you can’t explain to anyone—not even yourself. Your hands do the work, your face forces the smile, but your soul aches for someone to look deeply and truly see you. Not for your title. Not for your usefulness. Not for your performance. But for who you are when you’re not trying.
If that’s you, don’t miss Hagar’s story. Because this moment shows us something about God that tender theology alone could never say.
God sees before He saves. He notices before He changes our circumstance. He meets Hagar in the wilderness. He doesn’t wait until she walks back, cleans up, gets it all together. He finds her fleeing. Frightened. Untethered. And He names her value long before her life looks valuable again.
That’s who El Roi is.
It’s easy to believe that God sees the pastors, the missionaries, the ones whose lives are painted in ministry and sermons and songs. But Hagar did none of that. She was invisible to everyone else—and it was there, in her forgotten place, that God drew near.
Not once does the text say she saw God’s face. But she knew she had been noticed, and that was enough to keep going.
I once sat with a woman on a church bench—her voice small, her eyes searching. “I just want to know,” she whispered, “if God even knows I exist. I pray and get nothing. I cry, and it feels like the ceiling catches my tears before heaven does.”
It took a minute. Then I remembered Hagar.
“She named God,” I said gently. “Not the other way around. And she named Him the God who sees.”
The woman nodded slowly, tears falling—not in despair this time, but in recognition.
God may not always speak the way we want. He may not change our situation overnight. But He sees. And being seen—really seen—changes everything.
So if you’re in a place right now where the world doesn’t notice, and the silence is loud, hear this:
He knows your name.
He sees your struggle, your quiet sacrifices, your nights of doubt, your small moments of courage. You are not hidden. You are not forgotten.
El Roi still walks the desert paths, still finds the ones who flee, still speaks with gentleness and care to the broken and the brave.
He saw Hagar.
He sees you.
And that’s enough to begin again.
