To Be Seen

To Be Seen

The neurologist pulled her chair around to face me. Then she gently told me that the difficulties I had been having writing equations on the blackboard and tying my shoes were not arthritis but the result of an incurable, progressive neurological disease. Oh.

I left her office feeling curiously relieved—grateful for the small mercies she offered to ease the symptoms, but thankful above all because she had so clearly seen my affliction. So often our sufferings go unseen by those around us. We fear, perhaps, that God does not see our struggles either.

But from the opening antiphon to the Gospel, all of today’s readings promise us otherwise. We are seen, we are known, and, even in the face of mortal danger, we are held close by God, who Isaiah tells us delights—exults!—in his people.

Unlike the heart-stricken father in John’s Gospel, I do not come to God these days seeking a miracle, or even signs and wonders. I come to see. And I come yearning to be seen.

St. Augustine said of the Eucharist: See who you are, become what you see. So I stand before the altar and see Christ lifted on the cross, suffering and fearing he was abandoned. I see who I am, suffering and afraid of what the future might hold—and know I am not alone. I hold out my hands and realize that I am seen in return, called forth from the depths of the netherworld, bound not only to the cross, but promised life. I am seen in my affliction. That is miracle enough, so I believe.

Michelle Francl-Donnay is a wife and mother, a professor of chemistry, and an adjunct scholar at the Vatican Observatory. She is author of Prayer: Biblical Wisdom for Seeking God in the Little Rock Scripture Study Alive in the Word series. michellefrancldonnay.com. 

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This reflection appeared in the March 2026 issue of Give Us This Day and is used with permission.

The reflection had its roots in the Entrance Antiphon: "As for me, I trust in the Lord. Let me be glad and rejoice in your mercy, for you have seen my affliction." The psalm for the day is the one that I could not stop running through my head the terrible night that Tom died. The dance of tears and joy, of fear and trust. And I kept thinking in the Gospel about the long walk home that the father in the Gospel had, not knowing whether his son lived, had his miracle been granted? Would he still have believed if his son had died?