Ever since we got up this morning, my dog has been staring at me. She woke me up this morning with dog breath in the eye, went outside to do her thing, and now can’t take her eyes off me. It’s a little disconcerting.
It’s not a casual glance, but a steady, unblinking stare. I’ve gone downstairs to start a load of laundry and into the kitchen for coffee, and those eyes followed. A quiet, relentless watching that makes me wonder what she’s thinking (although admittedly she doesn’t think much).
It made me think of two very different perspectives in Scripture.
The psalmist looks up at the vastness of the night sky and asks in wonder, “What are humans that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them?” (Psalm 8:4).
The question isn’t anxious; it’s astonished. Why would the Creator of the moon and stars pay any attention to us? And yet, the psalmist doesn’t shy away from the idea that God is always watching over us —intentionally and caringly. To be seen by God here isn’t invasive but honoring. It’s an act of love.
Job asks the same question, but from a very different place. “What are human beings, that you make so much of them, that you visit them every morning … Will you not look away from me for a while?” (Job 7:17–19).
Job “borrows” the psalmist’s words and turns them inside out. God’s watching, to him, feels unbearable. God’s attention feels heavy—never letting him forget it’s there. Where the psalmist feels lifted by being seen, Job feels crushed by it. “Please,” he says, “stop staring at me.”
Same God. Same human question. Radically different conclusions. There’s a tension here that matters.
The psalmist reminds us that being noticed by God is not something to fear. We’re not overlooked accidents in a vast universe. We matter to a God who delights in our existence.
Job reminds us that there are seasons when even love can feel like pressure, when being seen doesn’t feel comforting. Job teaches us that faith doesn’t require us to romanticize God’s presence when life hurts. Scripture makes room for prayers that ask God not only to draw closer to us, but also to step back for a little while.
Maybe that’s the lesson from Tori this morning. There’s a gift to holding these two texts together. They tell us that God’s divine attention can feel like wonder in one season and weight in another. But, more importantly, is the lesson that it’s not God who changes, but us and our response to God.
Back on the couch, Tori is still staring at me. I don’t really mind it. She’s not judging me or asking me to prove anything. She just wants to see me and know I see her. As for God, most days I don’t really mind God’s presence watching over me. It’s a reminder of his love and care. But I can imagine days when that gaze would feel like too much—when I’d want space, quiet, relief from being seen.
Faith, it seems, is honest enough to hold both prayers. Sometimes we whisper with the psalmist, “I can’t believe you see me.” Other times, we cry with Job, “Please stop watching me.”
Somehow, God listens to both. And God is big enough to receive them both without looking away.
What is your prayer today? Do you need the reminder that God sees you and cares for you, or do you need a little space? You decide, but don’t lose sight of the fact that even if you need a little space, God’s love for you won’t change.
