The soldier sat on the cold, damp ground, the weight of his pack pressing into his back as he leaned against the muddy wall of the trench. The sound of distant explosions echoed in the night, but here, for the moment, it was quiet. Too quiet. He pulled out a tattered piece of paper and a pencil from his breast pocket and began writing, knowing this letter might never make it home.
“Dear Ma, Pa, and Sarah,” he started, the pencil shaking in his tired hands. “I don’t have much time to write, but I wanted to let you know I’m still here. The days are long, and the nights seem even longer. I can handle the gunfire, the cold, and the rain. I can endure the hunger, the exhaustion. It’s the waiting that’s breaking me.”
He paused, listening to the rhythmic drip of water seeping through the trench walls. Like so many others, he had grown used to this sound—like the whispers of the men next to him, sharing stories of home they might never return to. He continued writing, his thoughts heavy.
“Sometimes, I wonder if anyone remembers we’re out here at all. We’ve been stuck in these trenches for months, fighting a war that feels like it’ll never end. And honestly, Ma and Pa, I feel we’ve been forgotten some days. Like no one back home even knows we’re still fighting, still alive. I miss you all more than I can say. I miss Sunday dinners, the sound of Sarah’s laughter, and Pa’s stories. I miss feeling like I mattered.”
The pencil hovered over the page as he tried to find the right words to say next. “Do you think God sees us out here? Does He hear the prayers we whisper before each battle, or does the sound of the guns drown us out?”
He stopped again, staring into the darkness. It was a question he had asked himself often. The waiting, the silence—it felt like they were trapped in a world that no one could see or care about. He folded the letter, tucked it back into his pocket, and sighed. For now, he’d keep waiting, hoping someone remembered they were still here, hoping God did too.
Suffering.
It’s a word we avoid but cannot escape. Whether Christian or not, life brings moments of pain, heartbreak, and confusion, and suffering is a common and universal experience for all people. Whether you’re a Christian or not, suffering will come your way. It is, at times, the defining question in many people’s relationship with God. Does He see me in this pain? Does He even care? But more importantly, what do we do when we feel unseen, invisible in our hurt?
For the past few weeks, I’ve been stuck in the story of Hagar—a story of suffering, misuse, and divine encounter. It paints a picture of how God not only sees us in our brokenness but works through it, reshaping our understanding of suffering, identity, and His eternal purposes.
Before diving into Hagar’s story, I want to share another story. It’s about a young boy named Christopher, whose story I stumbled upon on YouTube. Christopher, just a 12-year-old boy, was born blind. Imagine it—from birth—he couldn’t play outside like the other kids, couldn’t watch cartoons, and most painfully, he had never seen his mother’s face.
One day, Christopher was given the opportunity to use a device called eSight, which enables the blind to see the world digitally. Sitting in a room with his mother, the device was placed over his eyes. As Christopher adjusted to his new world of sight, he turned to his mother—the woman who had cared for him all his life—and said, “Oh Mommy! There you are. You’re so beautiful.”
His mother wept, because for the first time, she was truly seen by her son.
That moment? That profound experience of finally being seen points us to something deeper. It’s one thing to see, but it’s another thing entirely to be seen.
In Genesis 16, we meet Hagar, an Egyptian servant to Sarai and Abram. Immediately, tension grips the story. “Now Sarai, Abram’s wife, had borne him no children. She had a female Egyptian servant whose name was Hagar” (Gen 16:1). The problem that drives this narrative is laid bare—Sarai’s barrenness. She knew God’s promise that Abram would become the father of a great nation, yet her womb was empty.
In those days, barrenness wasn’t just a private disappointment—it was a social shame. Sarai likely wrestled with thoughts that sound all too familiar to us: “I am not enough. I am not woman enough. I am not wife enough. I am not good enough because I remain childless.” The shame of infertility, paired with her fear that God’s promise might not come to pass, led Sarai to make a desperate decision.
In her attempt to secure her future, Sarai gives Hagar to Abram as a concubine, a surrogate through whom she might bear a child. “And he went into Hagar, and she conceived. And when she saw that she had conceived, she looked with contempt on her mistress” (Gen 16:4). But Sarai’s plan backfires. Jealousy and bitterness brew between the two women. Sarai, now hurt by Hagar’s disdain, responds with harshness: “Sarai dealt harshly with her, and she fled from her” (Gen 16:6).
Hagar runs—fleeing from her suffering, her mistreatment, and the life she never chose. Alone in the wilderness, vulnerable and pregnant, Hagar embodies invisibility. She is a foreigner, a slave, reduced to nothing more than a tool in her master’s eyes.
But here’s where the narrative turns: Hagar’s story doesn’t end in the wilderness.
As Hagar sits by a spring in the wilderness, something profound happens. “The angel of the Lord found her… and he said, ‘Hagar, servant of Sarai, where have you come from and where are you going?’” (Gen 16:7-8). Notice, God addresses Hagar by name. Up until this point, she had been referred to only by her position—servant—but now, God calls her by name. This act of naming dignifies her in a way no one else ever had.
Then God asks a question He already knows the answer to: “Where have you come from and where are you going?” This isn’t about gathering information but rather invitation. God often asks questions to draw us closer to Him. Think about the Garden of Eden, where God asked Adam, “Where are you?” Or with Cain, “Where is Abel, your brother?” These questions don’t seek knowledge; they offer an open door for confession, honesty, and relationship.
In response to Hagar’s suffering, God doesn’t leave her with nothing. He gives her a promise: she will have a son, and her descendants will be too numerous to count. God even gives her son a name, Ishmael, meaning “God hears,” reminding her that God had heard her cries of affliction (Gen 16:11).
Hagar, overwhelmed by this divine encounter, gives God a name: El Roi, “the God who sees me.” How incredible is that? God, in His power and greatness, doesn’t just see kings and nations—He sees individuals, especially those society overlooks. God saw Hagar as more than a servant, more than a woman fleeing abuse. He saw her as a human being with a name, a future, and a purpose.
Hagar’s story shows us something profound about suffering: it never goes unnoticed by God. In our pain, it’s easy to feel like God is distant, disinterested, or even cruel. But here’s the thing—His name reveals His nature. And His nature explains His “no.” Even when God allows suffering, His character remains unshaken. He is still good. He is still sovereign. He is still intricately involved in our lives, even in the darkest moments.
Sarai’s infertility, Hagar’s mistreatment, and even God’s command for Hagar to return to Sarai—all of these moments might seem unfair, even cruel. But these chapters are not wasted. There’s purpose in every part of the story, even the parts that hurt.
The pinnacle of God’s response to suffering is not only seen in Hagar’s wilderness encounter but in the person of Jesus Christ. Jesus, the sinless Son of God, endured a “slave’s death” on the cross to bring redemption. His suffering wasn’t pointless or arbitrary; it was how humanity was saved.
Jesus, who knew no sin, became sin for us. He took on the full weight of human brokenness. He was mocked, beaten, nailed to a tree. In His cry, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” we see the tension between suffering and divine love. But we also see victory. Christ’s death and resurrection shattered the power of sin and suffering for all who believe.
The story of Hagar, much like the story of Christ, calls us to trust in God’s promises, even when life doesn’t make sense. Hagar was told to return to Sarai, but she wasn’t sent back empty-handed. God gave her promises—assurances that He had a plan for her life and that her suffering was not in vain. Similarly, we are called to trust in God’s faithfulness, even when the road is long and painful.
Suffering is inevitable in this broken world, but how we respond to it shapes who we become. In Hagar’s story, we see a woman who was invisible to the world but seen by God. Her suffering was real, but so was God’s presence. And in that wilderness moment, she came to know Him as El Roi, the God who sees.
So, what about us? In our pain, in your wilderness, in our moments of invisibility—do we believe that God sees us? Because He does. He is not distant. He is not disinterested. He is the God who sees us, hears us cries, and meets us right where we are.
And in the end, that is enough. That is more than enough.
Painting Credit: Dominique Surh, “Hagar and the Angel.”
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