El Roi. You are the God who sees. You see the beauty that you intricately wove into each person. You see the pain, whether it’s boiling over or buried deep inside. You see the complexities and the brokenness and the fears. You see us for who we are and who you created us to be in our inmost parts.
You see us, but we often fail to see each other. And though we all have blind spots, I fear that these blue eyes enveloped in white skin act as cataracts at times. They make it easy to move through life without seeing the wounds caused by careless words. They make it easy to miss (or even look away from) the myriad of ways that the systems of this world try to negate the dignity of those who don’t share my traits.
Lord Jesus, have mercy on me.
Forgive me for the times that I failed to see.
Forgive me for the times that I looked away.
God, tear away the scales from my eyes.
Give me eyes to see.
You are a God who gives sight to the blind.
But I must be willing to admit my impairment.
I must desire to see what’s been hiding in my blind spots.
I must be willing to let go of the distorted view that I’ve accepted as reality.
Lord, I want to see.
Help me to see your image in others.
Help me to see the God-given dignity, goodness, and beauty in them.
Help me to see the invisible burdens that others carry around on their shoulders.
Help me to see the pain and the fear that is hidden behind anger or stoic facades.
Help me to see the trauma that lies beyond my own experiences.
God, give me eyes to see.
As I'm grieving the hate crimes committed against Asian Americans and repenting of the ways that I've failed to see their pain, I'm looking for more opportunities to listen and learn. I invite you to join me by reading this article from Dr. Michelle Ami Reyes which expresses some of the pain of being unseen in the margins and the hope that is springing up from that place.
Featured Image by Amanda Dalbjörn on Unsplash