Have you ever noticed how much of life is spent trying to get someone’s attention?
Children do it naturally. “Mom! Dad! Watch this! Look at what I’m doing!” Maybe you have been in a store and observed a family with a child practically jumping up and down and saying over and over, “Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!” While the parents talk on their phone or examine a bin of potatoes as if no one else is around.
Adults tend to be a little more sophisticated about it, but I’m not entirely convinced we’re all that different. We want to know that somebody notices us and values us, that somebody is paying attention.
Lately I’ve been thinking about that because of a cat.
Now, before I go any further, I should probably explain that this is not technically our cat. At least that’s what my wife would tell you. It’s more like we are the cat’s humans. This cat has simply adopted us.
Most days, when I pull into our driveway, he is sitting patiently on the wheelchair ramp. As soon as I open the car door, he begins meowing loudly enough that the neighbors know I’ve arrived home. You would think he was starving. The interesting thing is that even when I feed him, he often won’t start eating immediately. Instead, he wants me to come over first and rub his head, scratch behind his ears, and acknowledge his regal existence. Only then will he settle down and start eating.
Apparently food is important. But being noticed is important too.
That cat reveals something about human beings—not that we’re exactly like cats, though some of us may share a few personality traits. But beneath all our busyness and striving and accomplishments, I think most of us carry a deep desire to be seen. Not merely looked at. Seen. Known. Recognized. To know that our lives matter to someone.
Last Sunday we looked at the story of Hagar and Ishmael in the wilderness. It’s one of the harder stories in Scripture. Remember it: Hagar has been cast out into the desert with her boy. She’s alone. She’s frightened. She’s watching her son suffer. She has every reason to believe she’s been forgotten. And yet in the middle of that wilderness, God hears. God sees. God responds.
One of the things that moves me about that story is that Hagar is not one of the major characters we usually talk about. She isn’t powerful. She isn’t celebrated. She isn’t the center of the story from anyone else’s perspective. But she is not invisible to God. God sees her even when everyone else seems to have moved on.
I think many people need that reminder, because there are seasons when life can make us feel unseen. Retirement can do that. Illness can do that. Caregiving can do that. Grief can do that.
Sometimes the world seems to value people only for what they produce, what they achieve, or what they contribute. When those things change, we can begin to wonder whether we still matter.
That’s one reason I’ve also been thinking about Isaac. This coming Sunday we’ll spend some time with his story as part of our Accessibility Awareness Sunday. One of the surprising things about Isaac is that, compared to some of the other people in Genesis, he doesn’t seem to do very much.
Abraham leaves his homeland. Jacob wrestles with God. Joseph saves a nation.
Isaac? Well, Isaac spends a lot of time being Isaac. That’s probably not how you’d phrase it in a Bible study curriculum, but it’s true. Compared to the dramatic stories around him, his life seems remarkably ordinary.
Yet God’s covenant rests on him. God’s promises continue through him. His significance doesn’t come from extraordinary accomplishments. His significance comes from belonging.
I’ve been wondering whether those two stories belong together more than we realize. Hagar reminds us that God sees us. Isaac reminds us that we don’t have to earn the right to matter. Maybe those are actually two parts of the same truth.
What if being seen by God comes before everything else? Before success. Before achievement. Before proving ourselves. Before becoming impressive. Before any of the things we often use to measure our worth.
What if our value begins with the simple fact that we are known and loved by God?
I don’t know about you, but I find that comforting. Because there are days when I feel productive and useful. And there are days when I don’t.
There are days when I think I’ve accomplished something worthwhile. And there are days when I mostly answer emails, misplace things, and wonder where the afternoon went.
On both kinds of days, God’s love and attention and care remain the same.
Maybe that’s what the cat that has adopted us somehow understands.
Before he eats, before he goes about the business of being a cat, he wants reassurance that someone sees him, knows he’s there, and is glad he showed up. Then once he knows that, he’s able to just move on.
And maybe, in a way, that’s what God offers all of us. Not because we’ve earned it—we can’t. Not because we’ve become remarkable, a standard we will never be able to achieve even in our own eyes. But simply because we belong to him.
Let’s pray.
Father, thank you for seeing us when we feel overlooked, forgotten, or invisible. Thank you that our worth does not depend on our accomplishments but on your love. Help us to rest in the assurance that we are known by you, cared for by you, and held in your hands. And help us to notice the people around us who may be wondering whether anyone sees them, and see them the way Jesus would. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
