The God Who Sees: A Reflection on Silence, Hunger, and Returning

Last week, I spent about 40 hours at Christ in the Desert Monastery in New Mexico. The journey there was rugged, long, and remote—just like the internal terrain I’ve been walking.

Upon arrival, I opened the gate to the guesthouses, where there’s no formal greeting—just a sign pointing to your assigned room.

It was in that moment that I felt it: Silence. Not just the absence of noise, but a deep and almost palpable stillness. I sensed God whispering something through it—“Rest.”

So I did. I went to my room and actually took a solid nap before the first scheduled prayer: 5:00 p.m. Vespers.

Walking to the church, I noticed hunger rising. Not just spiritual hunger, which is what I was seeking and wanting to leave full—but the literal, physical kind. I entered the sanctuary early, sat quietly, and tried to release expectations. I felt unsure of myself. Coming from a Southern Baptist background, the Catholic liturgy felt unfamiliar. I wasn’t "getting it.” I was distracted, frustrated. I wanted to be present, but I felt lost, confused.

After the service, I met the guest-master and was ushered to dinner. I smiled at others, silently acknowledging them, knowing we were to spend these days in silence. After dinner, I returned to my room and sat outside under a wide desert sky. I had planned to read and write, but instead—I just sat.The desert rain came. The clouds rolled in. And I simply listened.

I wasn’t thinking about anything specific. I was just inviting God to be near. And He was.

On the wall of my refreshingly plain room hung a print of Rembrandt’s The Return of the Prodigal Son—a painting that’s been close to my heart for the past year. Also, I book by Henri Nouwen I highly recommend! As I studied it in that stillness, I realized this was my first encounter with the theme that would thread itself through my entire time there:“The God Who Sees.”

From that point on, I kept noticing this truth: God was not demanding my performance. He was simply being with me.

Another theme that kept surfacing was the idea of returning. The painting of the son coming back to his father. The story read at Mass of Jesus telling the Samaritan woman to return to her husband. The gentle, persistent reminders of God’s Covenant of Peace (Isaiah 54) And the deeply personal ache I felt around my own story of shame, scarcity, and unmet needs.

Noticing the Hunger

Something unexpected began to rise in me during my time at the monastery—a quiet, persistent nudge from God around my relationship with food. In a place where the monks eat in simplicity—often just one substantial meal a day—I became acutely aware of how distracted I was by hunger. What surfaced in that sacred stillness was a long-standing, internalized mindset: a legacy of food scarcity.

I tried not to shame myself for it, even though shame often feels like second nature. Instead, I practiced just noticing. And God met me there.

If you know me, you know I’m the self-proclaimed “candy queen”—I love anything with butter and sugar. Food has often been a source of comfort, a way to manage stress or give myself something sweet in a hard world. But in this monastic rhythm—where every act is wrapped in worship, from morning vigils to lauds, Mass, sext, and vespers—I noticed that my biggest distraction was, of all things, food.

That realization made me feel angry at first. Not because I judged myself for being hungry, but because I wanted to be connecting with God on a deeper level… and instead, I was preoccupied with my body’s cravings. It felt like such a small thing to be tripping over in such a sacred place. But even in that frustration, God met me with kindness.

I sensed His grace not in spite of my distraction, but right inside it. In my final hours at the monastery, I actually started to feel a fullness that didn’t come from bread, but from God Himself. Still, I realized something: I probably need more time. More silence. More space. Another full week—or a lifetime, even—of learning how to separate from the noise of my body and the scarcity in my past, so I can meet God in the quiet place where He already waits.

Psalm 107:9

"For He satisfies the thirsty and fills the hungry with good things."

Deuteronomy 8:3

"He humbled you, causing you to hunger and then feeding you with manna... to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord."

The second night, I couldn’t sleep. I wrestled with the restlessness, literally, my sheets started to form a knot from all my wrestling. But I felt God nudging me to:“Pray.” So if I can't sleep, that must be the next best thing right?

So I prayed—for clarity, for healing, for understanding. I asked God how He sees me.

And He kept showing me.

At lunch the next day, a reading was shared aloud: a story about the Camino de Santiago—which I had walked the previous year. That detail, in that moment, struck deeply. It was as if God said,“I see you Lauren. I remember. I’ve walked with you all along.” This detail could easily be overlooked by myself, but in this moment I really felt what Hagar was feeling when she was left. She felt hopeless and overlooked but God SAW her there. He sees me and knows every tear I have cried, I just can't get over that fact.

I came to the monastery looking for retreat, unsure of what I’d find.

What I found was not clarity in structure or satisfaction in ritual.

What I found was the God who sees.

In my distraction.

In my longing to "get it right."

In the desert silence.

In hunger and rest.

In the call to return.

In the theme of The God Who Sees—from Genesis 16 to right here in my own story.

He saw Hagar. He saw me.