Known But to God
My legs stretched over the chilled marble steps that early December morning. We were one of the first groups to weave through the mile-long trek to the memorial. The path led us past thousands of grave markers adorned with wreaths and a single red bow. The brisk walk with our three children through Arlington Cemetery had been full of explanations as we sporadically read through the names on the stark white stones around us. We talked of military ranks, battles, and dates.
As we got closer to our destination, our chatter subsided. Now we sat in complete silence, but for the tapping of the soldier’s shoes as he methodically paced along the pathway worn in stone. A few other bystanders trickled in behind us to look upon the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
The changing of the guard wouldn’t begin for another fifteen minutes. While waiting, I found myself arrested by a mixture of overwhelming grief and pride for the dignity bestowed in this place. I stared at the large rectangular memorial in front of me and pored over the words etched into its face: “Here rests in honored glory an American soldier known but to God.”
The last phrase pierced my heart: known but to God. I imagined the soldiers throughout history who went to their deaths, utterly alone. I thought of their service, the particular way they defended that day or aided a civilian before the end—now known only to God. I glanced down the hill to the seemingly infinite lines of gravestones. Those markers held names; they held histories others could hear, understand, and repeat. Yet this tomb, guarded by a lone sentinel’s dutiful paces, spoke of a life given in isolation. It spoke of loss, not only in the physical sense, but even in memory and knowledge.
I wiped away a tear with my gloved hand. Known but to God. I couldn’t shake the phrase. I knew the sentiment wasn’t only given to the unknown soldiers of American history. In reality, a large portion of all our lives remain unknown.
I’m not speaking of some sort of loose anonymity we feel within our handful of likes on Instagram or Facebook. This isn’t about the drive for fame and notoriety versus a “small” life. I’m speaking of the parts of our lives that truly are known only to the God of heaven.
Each of us holds these moments and feelings. They’re the thoughts in our heads that we just can’t manage to express fully to another human. They entail the labor no man sees and the deep grief we don’t even want to utter aloud.
Nobody will recount their reality to the generations to come, but we can find encouragement in the fact that even these moments are known to God.
Unknown Labor
Over fourteen-hundred minutes comprise each of our days. Though our world operates according to the adage, “take a picture or it didn’t happen,” the reality remains that so much in those minutes happens unnoticed, unshared, and ultimately unknown. Sure, the fruit of our labor is often visible; we send out the project presentation, cook the meal, teach the kids, paint the picture, or write the story—but how much work and effort goes into the fruit that nobody ever sees? What effort, feelings, or fears revolve around the products we produce that never leave our head?
We can’t possibly convey the whole of our labor to others. It’s hard to explain the hundreds of hours and minutes spent on a project that at best gets quickly shuffled along to another, or at worst becomes scrapped altogether. Others don’t understand the amount of preparation that goes into a painting, nor how many nights we rolled over a story idea in our heads before a completely different one made it into the book. Nobody knows the amount of time we dedicate in our head to solving our student’s struggles with multiplication facts, nor see the hidden hours it took to sand that piece of woodwork.
Each and every day we hold a litany of private experiences nobody will ever know. They extend not only to our creative endeavors, but also in our obedience to the Lord. The dressed and tidy children might display the fruit of the day, but who really sees the constant decisions to choose patience and forgiveness that filled that day? Who saw the battle within your mind over whether or not to react in anger when the three-year-old refused to pick up the dinosaur for the third time?
The project in your engineering firm may be moving forward to production, but who witnessed the wrestlings in your head over choosing patience or sarcasm toward the team member who continually wouldn’t step up?
These moments remain unknown to the world but lay bare before the Lord of Heaven. He sees every bit of our labor and our obedience, no matter how small. Scripture repeatedly reminds us the eyes of the Lord are on the people (Ps. 34:15), he sees everything in the world (Job 28:24), and nothing is hidden from his sight (Heb. 4:13). While this reality might draw us to conviction, it also can give us great hope. God sees your labor and he delights in it.
Jesus told his disciples, “If you give even a cup of cold water to one of the least of my followers, you will surely be rewarded” (Matt. 10:42 NLT). In our world of big returns and fruitful productivity, Jesus reminds us he cares about the single cup. Knocking around in the hidden parts of our days are tiny cups of cold water. Perhaps it’s the cold drink of a restrained word, the faithful sacrifice of lesson planning, or the mulling over of a phrase for an article you want to form just right. These cups remain hidden, but they are known to our Father who watches.
Unknown Grief
Not only does God see our hidden labor, but our precious Savior also sees our unknown grief. The last moments of the unknown soldiers are known to God, but so are the hidden tears of the widows and children left behind.
The deepest parts of our suffering are held by the hand of God. We may not be able to explain the currents of darkness that flow in our souls, but our Lord is intimately equated with them. He knows the extent of their reach. He knows everything about us, after all. He discerns our thoughts from afar, and he knows the words before they are on our lips (Ps. 139:1–24).
God knows which hurtful words spring up and haunt us before we go to bed at night. Our Father knows the exhaustion from the questions we cycle through in our heads over our suffering. He knows every fear that keeps us up at night—the ones we try to explain to a friend, but they just can’t quite grasp. All the places of heartache that we can’t put into words are known to God.
Because he knows them perfectly, we can find true comfort in his care. When Matthew writes, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Matt. 5:4) we can remember this speaks to our unknown places of grief. God will provide comfort for the hurts of which we dare not speak.
Years ago a young woman caught in deep and isolating grief was visited by the Lord God. We don’t know much about what she went through. We don’t know her thoughts or the extent of her pain. These details remain a mystery. We do know the Lord appeared to her, and she named him, “the God who sees” for he saw her hidden pain and provided for her with hope and comfort (Gen. 16:13).
When we go to the Lord in prayer, in petition, and in weeping, we go to the God who knows our unknown griefs. We petition the God who sees the hidden and can offer comfort unlike any other person on this earth—for he alone knows.
Though the valiant last moments of all our American soldiers aren’t written in history, they were marked by the God who saw. He saw their service, and he saw their pain. What unknown places do you have in your own life today? Where do you feel isolated? Whether it’s in your labor and obedience or in the deepest of suffering, all of it lays bare before your Father. The Lord sees what nobody else can see. Your labor and obedience never go unnoticed, nor do the tears that flow inside you. Others might not see, but here in this very day rests a million moments known but to your God.
Brianna Lambert is a wife and a mom to three, making their home in the cornfields of Indiana. She loves using writing to work out the truths God is teaching her each day. She is a staff writer with GCD and has contributed to various online publications, such as Christianity Today and The Gospel Coalition. You can find more of her writing at lookingtotheharvest.com.