What You Come Looking for Shapes What You See

It was my least favorite city in Europe.

I was in my thirties, backpacking through Europe for four months, going and coming as I pleased. I had been in and out of Paris many times, and something about it never sat right with me. One afternoon in the metro, my group of friends stopped an attendant to ask which line would take us to the Eiffel Tower. He refused to answer. We hadn’t asked in French, and that was reason enough for him. When we tried to speak French, he pretended not to understand us.

That was the image I carried for years. A city that had no patience for Americans.

I had no idea what I was missing.

The Trip That Almost Wasn’t

I never imagined I would one day want to go back. Something kept calling me back to Paris. I made plans to go with a friend, and they fell apart. The timing wasn’t right. Then her schedule changed, and the door seemed to close completely.

Instead of giving up, I kept looking. That’s when I found an art and faith creative retreat, built around sketching and watercolor journaling at sites across the city. No checklist. No race from landmark to landmark. Slow walks to beautiful places, with time to linger at each one long enough to truly take it in.

The moment I read the description, I knew this was the trip I had been waiting for. I decided not to revisit the major landmarks I had already seen. Versailles. The Eiffel Tower. The Louvre. This trip was not about how many things I could see. It was about how I would see.

What Joy Looks Like Here

One of the journal prompts I carried with me asked: 

What does joy look like here?

I didn’t know the answer when I left. I found it in Paris.

Joy was noticing.

The flower stands spilling onto sidewalks. The sound of dishes clinking at outdoor tables. The rhythm of people walking without hurry. The light reflecting on old buildings at night. Buildings draped in wisteria, vines climbing their faces. Storefronts with flowers arranged carefully around their entrances, some real, some artificial, all of them beautiful, because someone decided beauty was worth the effort even when no one required it.

At the cafés, small tables lined the sidewalks and no one rushed you. You could sit for hours over a cup of coffee, watching the world move around you. People sat facing one another instead of staring at screens. Families lingered over meals. Artists sat sketching near gardens and rivers.

It all felt like an invitation: Come linger here. Come pay attention. Come fully inhabit this moment.

And for the first time, I accepted.

What You Come Looking For

Here is something I didn’t expect to find.

The last time I was in Paris, I found rudeness everywhere. This time, I found warmth and patience. The same city. A completely different experience.

What changed?

I kept asking myself that question somewhere between a café on a quiet street and a building wrapped in wisteria. And I kept coming back to one honest answer. The first time, I was moving fast and carrying expectations. I had already decided what I would find. And I found it, every time.

Jesus said something about this in Matthew 6:22: “Your eye is like a lamp that provides light for your body. When your eye is healthy, your whole body is filled with light.”

What you come looking for shapes what you see.

I walked into Paris the first time with my eye fixed on what I expected, and my whole experience was colored by it. This time, I arrived with open hands and no agenda, and Paris looked like a different city entirely.

This is not just a travel observation. It is how expectations work in every season of life. When we expect silence from God, we find evidence of it everywhere. When we expect to be overlooked, we walk right past the moments He placed in our path. When we expect nothing to change, we move through our days finding proof that we were right.

God has been asking me this question for years: What do you see?

In the storm, I tell Him I see the waves. I feel the tossing. I feel afraid. And gently He has been teaching me: change where you fix your eyes, and what you find begins to change.

He said it plainly, just a few verses later, in Matthew 6:26: “Look at the birds. They don’t plant or harvest or store food in barns, for your heavenly Father feeds them. And aren’t you far more valuable to him than they are?”

Look. Notice. Pay attention to what is right in front of you. He placed beauty around you on purpose.

A Perspective. A Pace.

I averaged 15,000 steps a day in Paris. With my back, that is significant. Most days at home I barely manage five thousand. But those were not rushed steps. They were noticing steps. Moving through the city with intention, lingering at each site.

I came home carrying something that doesn’t fit in a suitcase. A perspective. A pace.

And here is what I want you to hear: there is beauty in your city too. The noticing is not reserved for cobblestone streets and wisteria-draped buildings in France. You can find it  on any morning in your own kitchen, on your own street, in your own ordinary, extraordinary life.

Somewhere along the way, many of us stopped noticing our own lives.

We rush through conversations. Rush through meals. Rush through moments that once might have captured our attention. Even rest becomes productive. Even vacations become schedules to conquer.

What would change if you came into your day with different expectations?

What would you find if you came looking for beauty, for grace, for evidence of a God who is still asking you the same question He has always been asking?

What do you see?

Join our community for encouragement, devotionals, uplifting reflections and new blog posts delivered directly to your inbox.

Stay connected