How God Sees Us

Sometimes I wonder if one of the greatest tragedies of modern life is not violence, war, or politics…but simply the slow loss of tenderness.

The love of many growing cold.

People walking past each other without eye contact. Parents short with their children. Impatience everywhere. Judgment everywhere. Churches filled with people who somehow forgot how to truly see one another.

It grieves me more than I can explain.

And maybe that’s why certain dreams have stayed with me for decades.

Years ago, when I was around 19 or 20 years old living in Hawaii, I helped care for two young boys after school while their parents worked long hours. One of the boys, Kal, had severe muscular dystrophy. He lived in a wheelchair and could barely move his hands.

But Kal was hilarious.

He was sarcastic, sharp, mischievous, and full of personality. We played video games together. I taught his younger brother ukulele. We spent countless afternoons together.

I remember his wheelchair had little flames on the wheels.

Sometimes I would unlock the motorized chair, grab onto the handles, and sprint as fast as I could down the street pushing him while he laughed hysterically. Not a fake little laugh; deep, uncontrollable joy. Faster than the chair could ever take him on its own.

I took him to the beach. Helped care for him. Even helped change diapers when needed.

One day, after years of caring for him, he quietly asked me if maybe I wouldn’t do that part anymore because it embarrassed him.

And honestly, that moment stayed with me too.

Because underneath the wheelchair… underneath the medical condition… was simply a little boy wanting dignity.

Wanting freedom. Wanting to be seen as more than his limitations.

Years later, I had an incredibly vivid dream.

I saw Kal playing basketball.

Not walking. Not slowly recovering.

Playing basketball.

Running. Jumping. Laughing.

And in the dream, I ran toward him crying because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

“Kal… you’re playing basketball!?”

And he simply smiled like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I woke up in tears.

Then I searched his name online and discovered he had passed away.

Last night, I had another dream about my old friend Brian from Charlottesville, Virginia, a brilliant man who lived in an electric wheelchair and loved classical music, especially Shostakovich.

In the dream, Brian stood up tall. Strong. Healthy. Towering over me.

“Brian?!”

He smiled and simply said, “Yep. I was healed.”

Why do these dreams affect me so deeply?

Because I think somewhere deep inside us, we know human beings are more than what we currently see.

We reduce people constantly.

To politics. To disabilities. To appearances. To social status. To mistakes. To annoyances. To inconveniences.

But I don’t think God sees us that way.

I think God sees through the limitation.

I think He sees the whole person.

The restored person. The eternal person. The image-bearer underneath the pain, trauma, ego, insecurity, sickness, or brokenness.

And maybe that’s part of what we’re called to do too.

To see people beyond the surface.

To slow down enough to make eye contact. To smile. To be patient. To carry each other gently through this strange and difficult life.

The world feels increasingly cold lately.

But I refuse to believe coldness is strength.

I think compassion is strength. Patience is strength. Gentleness is strength. Presence is strength.

Maybe it looks like pushing a kid in a wheelchair down the street as fast as possible while he laughs like he’s flying.

Maybe the Kingdom of God looks less like winning arguments…and more like helping someone feel human again.