“Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek,
for they will inherit the earth.”
(Matthew 5:3–5)

I was in my late 40s when I returned to Queen’s for my M.Div. Learning in your 40s is a very different pilgrimage than learning in your late teens or early 20s. Some parts were easier: I knew how to focus, juggle responsibilities, and keep my eye on the prize. In our younger years, the “What will I be when I grow up?” question looms large, and the next shiny thing can be more compelling than finishing a paper for Biblical Hebrew. But by your 40s, you’ve learned that education opens doors in a different way. Dreams don’t just shimmer on the horizon; they start to take shape.

There were real drawbacks, too. I commuted. I worked to keep groceries on the table and the mortgage paid. I had a spouse and children who needed me. It was hard—a different kind of hard—but hard nonetheless.

What I didn’t anticipate was how “old” I’d feel to the other students. I knew I was often the age of their parents, but there was another layer to it: I felt invisible. Walking across campus, students would barrel down the sidewalk and I’d find myself stepping off the path to make room. Backpacks grazed my shoulder. Doors closed in my face as I wrestled with a stack of books. It didn’t feel malicious. It felt like I was simply unseen.

This week, I’ve heard echoes of that feeling in conversations with others:

• A colleague who poured heart and soul into a project—not only unthanked, but unacknowledged.
• A friend carrying a complex, lonely assignment for years, with little support or understanding.
• Someone who faithfully plans and hosts family gatherings everyone enjoys—only to find that once the dishes are done, appreciation and reciprocity are nowhere to be found.

Underneath each story was a tender grief: not being seen, not being heard, not being understood.

I know that ache. The slow erosion of worth as doors swing shut. The loneliness that seeps in. The poverty of spirit that settles when your presence doesn’t register for the people around you.

And I wonder if this is part of what Jesus is doing in the Beatitudes. I wonder if He is saying to us, “You may feel this way—but God sees you differently.”

Maybe that’s the point: God sees us.

• God sees us when our labour is taken for granted.
• God sees us when we work in isolation and obscurity.
• God sees us when even those we love don’t notice our tired eyes, or our quiet courage, or the way we make space on crowded sidewalks.

God sees us—and calls us blessed. Not because the experience is easy or fair, but because God’s gaze confers dignity. God’s seeing restores what diminishment tries to take.

Here at Bethel—a small, rural pastoral charge—we know what it is to be overlooked. Because of our size and location, we don’t always register on the wider map. And yet, God sees us as God’s glorious creation: made for wholeness, made for holiness, made to be fully seen and fully known.

So, beloved Bethel family, today, let’s practice the holy work of seeing:

• Look for the one who keeps things running in the background.
• Notice the quiet faithful.
• Hold the door, share the path, say thank you—out loud.

Do it because they need it. Do it because we need it. And as you do, be assured: you are seen. You are loved. You are blessed.

~Rev. Lynne