Unseen: The Gift of Being Hidden in a World That Loves to Be Noticed

by Sara Hagerty

And so, in some ways, the one who mistreats me gives me a gift: the gift of collapsing into the arms of God. What happens in the secret place between God and me is out of that person’s reach, making it even sweeter.

God champions us like no human can, but we don’t often see that unless we have nowhere to look but Him.

We want our work to be known and our impact to be memorialized. And it will be, but by God alone. No human can give us accolades that will satisfy the deepest longings of our hearts. We search vainly from others for the acclaim that only God can give.

This is why we need to reframe the way we view and respond to mistreatment. If we can see it as a form of hiding in God, it takes on new significance.

In the hidden places, we realize that the Word of God is a powerful weapon, not something created just for a cross-stitched wall hanging or as generally helpful advice. It reaches into our insides, into our inner thoughts and intentions, and exposes us before the God who has made us to partner with Him and against the internal lies we battle.

It’s in all those not-shining moments that these beautiful children have made me want to rest on God’s chest, that place where I’ve crumbled and where He moved in with power. I’m weepy and He’s gentle. I’m burdened and He’s kind. I’m reaching. Thirsty. And He responds.

What feels like a wilderness, a desert—the hidden seasons and the hidden spaces throughout our day that expose how dry we are on the inside—cannot thwart the maker of rain. These are the times our roots forge deeper through the earth to find the water source. It’s the only way to survive drought.

What is it in me that You want to heal? What is it in me that needs Your touch because these words hurt?

When we acknowledge the parts of us that are broken, we have significant growth spurts in God. As I grieved the loss of my dad, God was tender, personal, and patient. I grew as I gave myself permission to grieve—long past the time I’d allotted for grieving—and God healed with His presence over that moment and that slivered part of my heart. The long-broken parts of me don’t disqualify me from His love. Instead, they catch His eye. He heals us—from the inside out.

We’re all hidden, together, under His eye, these winterized trees and me. Masked, tucked away this afternoon, yet seen and thriving. He sees me and I know He sees me,

We allow ourselves to be lulled into a dull familiarity with the parts of Jesus we’ve experienced, the passages in His Word we’ve studied most, the truths about Him we can explain and understand. Then we string all of these familiar things together and call them God. And when we pray from this place of familiarity, instead of being alert for how the truth of how He really is will likely upend our human understanding, we end up watching for confirmation of what we already know.

The unsearchable God does invite our searching; friendship is formed in this seeking. God wants to be our friend in the way that friends share more than high-fives and occasional help. He wants to share hearts and stories and inner lives.

Jesus didn’t refer to this one thing so that we would shove our emotions and lift our chins and stiffen our lips. He said it of a woman who looked up at Him, weak and vulnerable and thirsty, and likely uncertain and nervous in her thirst. He said it of a woman who was simply trying to get close to Him, to the one thing she thought might meet the deepest craving of her heart.