I’m trailing two pickup trucks inside of Iowa, surrounded by scattered hills of gold-tasseled corn and a morning sky the hue of milk glass. I pass a field dotted with copper cows, a gray dilapidated farmhouse posted sentry. John Deeres rest on a dirt road corner, black-eyed Susans watching from the ditches on either side.
There is something about an Iowa farm that makes me pause and drink deep, that reminds me that life is but a vapor and I should take note.
I feel bathed in the creamy milk of the sky. I have time and space to pray as I drive these hills, and I need it.
Just before I climbed into the car earlier that morning, I received hard news from a friend. Tears overflow as I handle this latest prayer gently in my mind, holding it up before a Father who cares and yet has been silent. My heart aches and I ask why.
Like the Psalmist. David cries from the cave: “With my voice I cry out to the Lord; with my voice I plead for mercy to the Lord. I pour out my complaint before him; I tell my trouble before him.” (Psalm 142:1-2 ESV)
And as I drive this rural road, the calm of continuous expanses of color floods my being. The ache is still there, my friend still cries out for mercy, but I am reminded that God hears even when he doesn’t yet answer.
At home hours later I’m in the kitchen when I hear a thunk near the front door. My heart drops as I recognize the noise. I tentatively pull open the door and stare at the brown and white streaked bird lying limply on my doormat.
Gasp, gasp, gasp, it breathes, then stillness. I watch for a few moments, holding my own breath, and then release when I can hold it no longer and the bird can breathe no more.
I know I have to remove it from the porch. Not one to easily handle dead animals, I scoop it awkwardly into a wastebasket, lift out the liner, and tie it shut without looking at the pathetic weight within. I hold it at arm’s length and walk out to the trash can on the curb.
Returning to the front porch, I see two fluffs of gray-brown feathers left behind. It is then that I remember the words of Jesus:
“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.” (Matthew 10:29-30)
I realize then that this sparrow was allowed to fall to the ground, literally on my doorstep, that I might remember that my Father sees. He hears. He ordains. We are of great value to him.
He knows the cries of my friend.
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