Whether I’m hiding behind my kids or not. Whether I’m tired, wraggedy, or manic.

He sees me.

Not my undone laundry or my messy house. Not my mismatched curtains or my futon with the chocolate milk stains.

He sees me.

Beyond the color of my hair or the size of my waist. Over the grocery lists of immediate needs I rattle off to Him every morning. Behind the worry.

He sees me.

Inside my inside dreams, my secret hopes; at the crux of where mommy meets wife and woman.

He sees me.

Over the rim of my computer screen, behind my blog posts and inside the head that spins these words in circles.

He sees me.

In the hard watches of the night when I rock her and ache and slip lower and lower down the lip of the rocker. Alone. Or so it seems.

He sees me.

When I scream with my face set in a shrill whisper at the boys to drop what they are doing and take heed, ’cause mama will be on the war path if baby girl wakes when there’s a chance of some more sleep at 6am.

He sees me.

As I scrounge for a few minutes to read a single Bible verse; to listen to a chapter on my phone as I nurse and rock and nurse and repeat.

He sees me.

Beyond how I see myself. Beyond my lens, beyond my point-and-shoot camera, beyond my life of diapers, commuting and writing. Beyond my homesickness and current dearth of frequent flier miles. Beyond my accent, my zip code and my passport.

He, and He alone, truly sees me.

And oh dear friend, I hope you know He sees You too. And that there is profound comfort in that.

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