Love That Sees

“Love is blind,” they said, and I nodded, the way we all do when words sound wise from repetition. There were shrugged shoulders and raised eyebrows, a knowing glance that said, what can you do? I can’t even recall what sparked the conversation, but the phrase lingered long after.

Later, as I turned it over in my mind, something in me resisted. Maybe it isn’t love that’s blind at all. Maybe it’s infatuation that closes its eyes, while love—the true kind—sees everything clearly and still chooses to stay.

I know this because I’ve lived it. No matter how many times I was told I was loved, I couldn’t truly receive it. Not until every wall I’d built for protection was stripped away—until all that remained was simply me. It was there, in the open and unguarded places, that love finally met me and I could finally see it for what it was.

In fact, it was being fully known in the depth of my unloveliness—and still being loved, still being chosen there—that finally set me free. It was in that place I began to believe, maybe for the first time, that love was truly possible… even for me.

Before that moment, I had spent so much of my life trying to hide my ugly—covering the parts I thought would make me unworthy of love. I wore masks, performed roles, pretended to be more than I was. I chased identity in places and achievements that promised worth but left me weary and hollow inside.

But God—He didn’t wait for me to get it right. He met me right there in the middle of my pretending, beneath the layers I had so carefully built. His love didn’t recoil from the mess; it pressed in closer. It wasn’t blind to my sin or my shame—it saw it all and stayed.

In Scripture, there’s a name Hagar gives to God in her wilderness: El Roi—the God who sees. She was unseen by everyone else, discarded and forgotten, but not by Him. He saw her pain, her confusion, her need… and He met her there. That story has always undone me, because I know what it feels like to be both seen and loved in the same breath. That’s when I realized—love isn’t blind at all. Love sees, and still chooses.

When we begin to understand that we are seen and loved by El Roi, it changes the way we see the people around us. No longer do we love others for what they can offer us or how they make us feel—we love because we’ve been loved like that. The God who saw us in our unloveliness calls us to see others through His eyes: not through judgment or fear, but through compassion and truth.

Real love doesn’t turn away from someone’s mess. It doesn’t require perfection before drawing near. It looks straight into the brokenness, just as God did with us, and chooses to stay. That kind of love costs something—it demands humility, grace, and a willingness to see beyond the surface. But that’s the love that transforms hearts. That’s the kind of love that reflects Jesus.

My prayer is that we would learn to love like that—to love with our eyes wide open. To see others the way El Roi sees us: fully, truthfully, and yet with grace that stays. May we stop hiding behind the illusion of perfection and instead let ourselves be seen by the One who already knows us completely. Because it’s only in being seen and loved by Him that we are set free to see and love others well.

Love isn’t blind—it’s brave. It’s the willingness to behold what’s broken and choose to stay anyway. And that’s exactly what Jesus did for us.