For most of my life, I thought I was searching for a better future. Looking back, I realize I was searching for something much deeper. I wanted to be seen.

 

Noticed.

Valued.

Known.

 

Growing up, I didn't realize how little we had until my parents separated. Suddenly things became impossible to ignore.

 

The worn-out clothes.

The holes in my jeans.

The smell of cigarette smoke that followed me everywhere.

 

The feeling of standing in a room and knowing people could see where you came from before they ever got to know who you were. The strange thing was that I was a bright kid.

School came easily. I loved learning.

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When I was young, teachers actually considered moving me ahead several grades because I scored so high on aptitude testing. By fifth grade I was working through math problems far beyond what most kids my age were studying, but intelligence doesn't automatically create opportunity.

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I grew up in a small logging town. Like many small towns across America, most of the opportunities people could see were the opportunities that existed right in front of them.

 

The jobs.

The industries.

The expectations.

The paths that everyone else had already walked.

 

Most people don't even realize this is happening while they're growing up. It simply becomes normal. The world feels as large as the place you've always known. For me, nursing represented something different. It wasn't about success. It was about escape.

It was a chance to leave.

 

A chance to see more of the world.

A chance to discover opportunities I didn't even know existed.

A chance to build a different life than the one I thought had already been chosen for me.

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And for a while, it worked.

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Nursing opened doors. It gave me experiences. It allowed me to travel. It exposed me to possibilities far beyond the small town where I grew up, but over time I discovered something important. Escaping where I came from wasn't the same thing as discovering who I was. The scenery changed.

 

The emptiness didn't.

 

So I kept moving.

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I became a supervisor, I taught ACLS classes, I traveled, I earned a doctorate, I opened a business. With every accomplishment I believed I was getting closer to whatever it was I had been searching for all along. The problem was that I couldn't define what I was chasing. I just knew I hadn't found it yet.

 

The song says:

 

                              "I was chasin' bein' somebody,
                               Tryin' hard to be enough."

 

I think a lot of people understand that feeling.

 

Some chase money.

Some chase status.

Some chase relationships.

Some chase success.

Some chase approval.

 

But underneath all of it is often the same question:

 

Am I enough?

Will I ever be enough?

 

That is why the story of El Roi means so much to me. The name first appears in Genesis 16.

Hagar had been rejected, abandoned, and forgotten. She found herself alone in the wilderness believing her future had fallen apart, and it was there, in her lowest moment, that God met her.

 

She gave Him a name: El Roi, "The God Who Sees Me."

 

Not the God who sees my accomplishments.

Not the God who sees my reputation.

Not the God who sees my failures.

 

The God who sees me.

 

For years I was trying to become someone worth noticing. Meanwhile, God had already seen me completely.

 

The scared kid.

The overlooked kid.

The kid trying to escape.

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The man chasing achievement.

The man building a business.

The man losing everything.

The man standing in the ruins wondering what comes next.

 

God saw every version of me, and He never looked away. The greatest turning point in my life wasn't success.

 

It wasn't becoming a doctor.

It wasn't opening a business.

It wasn't earning another title.

 

It was surrender.

 

It was finally realizing that God had been present in every chapter.

 

Every open door.

Every closed door.

Every success.

Every failure.

Every lesson.

Every heartbreak.

Every victory.

 

He was there the entire time.

 

The song reaches its emotional peak not at the top of the mountain, but at the bottom.

 

Not at achievement.

Not at recognition.

Not at success.

 

At surrender.

 

Because it was only when everything else fell apart that I finally discovered what I had been searching for all along.

 

The God who saw me.

 

Not because I earned it.

Not because I achieved enough.

Not because I finally became somebody.

 

But because He always had. Long before I knew His name. Long before I understood mine.

That is the beauty of El Roi.

 

You do not have to become someone extraordinary before God sees you.

 

You are already seen.

You are already known.

You are already loved.

 

And sometimes the greatest freedom comes when we stop chasing the approval of people and start resting in the presence of the God who saw us first.