I Am Known

I know my sheep and my sheep know me.

—John 10:14

We met for coffee as we’d done many times before. After spending months confined to my house, too sick to leave, it felt good to do something ordinary. Even so, I entered the coffee shop wrapped in a blanket of sadness I couldn’t seem to shake. While I appreciated the health that allowed me a date, the memory of what I had endured in the months before was far stronger than the coffee shop’s dark roast.

Latte in hand, I sat down and tried to keep my emotions tucked safely away.

“Hey there!” My attempt at a smile was poor at best. She didn’t seem to notice.

“It’s so good to see you!” Her joy seemed far more sincere. I envied her that.

For the next several minutes, we settled into small talk about the day, our families, the week’s activities. It was nice, sharing normal conversation. But my sadness wouldn’t leave me alone. So when she asked me how I was doing, I decided to tell the truth.

“I’m sad. A lot. Can’t seem to stop crying.”

“Sad?” She pulled her brows together in a giant question mark. “Why?”

With that one-word question, I knew: she didn’t understand. She didn’t have a clue what cancer had cost me.

The truth of this stung. My friend didn’t intend to hurt me. She just couldn’t fathom the reason for my sadness. So in the space of two seconds, my sadness grew complicated by another emotion: aloneness.

This same scene repeated itself multiple times in the months that followed with various friends and family. After nearly succumbing to this third cancer occurrence, friends and family celebrated the gift of my life. They looked at me, altered as I was, and saw someone who shouldn’t have survived the hell she endured. A miracle! A gift! They didn’t see what had been lost, only what had been gained—life. And so they danced and celebrated and expected me to do the same.

Only I couldn’t. Instead, I mourned. I mourned the innocence of believing I’d live a long life. I mourned the loss of a body that worked as it should, looked as it should. And because those closest to me couldn’t grasp my grief, I mourned the aloneness that resulted.

I wanted to be known, understood. But it seemed no one could bridge the gap of experience to offer it.

There are few things as painful as being misunderstood.

A friend misinterprets your email. A coworker questions your integrity. A spouse doubts your fidelity. Regardless of the circumstance, to be misunderstood is to discover, to your great sadness, that the one who should know you best doesn’t really know you at all.

True empathy is a nearly impossible endeavor. It’s neither easy nor comfortable to step into another’s experience. Part of this is because of our natural human limitations; we don’t understand the roads we haven’t walked. But to be blunt, sometimes we don’t understand simply because we don’t want to. We don’t want to ask questions. We don’t want to sacrifice the time it takes to listen. And we don’t want to share another’s pain and pay the price of knowing.

Perhaps this is why I found myself drawing closer to the cross. For most of my life, I’ve celebrated Jesus’ resurrection. He is alive! I certainly need the gift of His life, and so I danced around His empty tomb with great celebration.

But in this season of suffering, I also needed Jesus’ grief and death. I needed to know a God who suffered, because I suffered. I needed to know a God who felt pain, because then He knew something of my pain.

In the Golgotha of my agony, I finally understand the comfort of the cross. At the broken body of Jesus, I finally feel known and understood. It is there, where both Jesus and I weep for all that’s been lost, that I am safe enough to say, “I’m not okay.” I’m no longer shamed into silence or looked at with confusion. Instead, Jesus’ eyes meet mine, and somehow I know that He knows.

God does not expect me to dance at His empty tomb without weeping at His cross. I don’t have to hide my grief or pretend I’m stronger than I am. Instead, I am blessed to have a Savior who steps into my story, who understands me more than any mother, father, husband, or friend ever can.

“I have summoned you by name, you are mine,” God says (Isa. 43:1). This is why He came. This is why He left the light of heaven for the pain of a cross.

So He could meet us there. And I’d finally know I’m known.

To be loved but not known is comforting but superficial. To be known and not loved is our greatest fear. But to be fully known and truly loved is, well, a lot like being loved by God. It is what we need more than anything. It liberates us from pretense, humbles us out of our self-righteousness, and fortifies us for any difficulty life can throw at us.

—TIMOTHY KELLER, THE MEANING OF MARRIAGE