The Sparrow Falls

Dearest Rachel –

Our block, if you can call it that, is an unusual one in the suburbs, as you might remember. One can walk north, and before one arrives at the next street (which, admittedly, has one passing three hundreds in terms of street numbers; hence why I call it ‘unusual’), one passes by an office complex en route to a retail strip mall situated on that first cross street. It’s a weird case of cheek-by-jowl zoning that seems more urban than suburban, and often reminds me of certain areas in Japan that Daniel and I have passed through over the past few years, with its crazy patchwork layout.

I often take the parking lot of the office park as a small shortcut between home and the gym. It doesn’t actually shave a lot of distance off the walk, but the diagonal detour feels like a secret passage that most of my fellow gym members aren’t aware of (not that they would need to be, but still); like I have some arcane knowledge not shared with others.

The office park tries to stay neat and clean, at least in terms of maintaining a certain measure of curb appeal. The two shorter buildings in front that folks drive by on our street have immaculately manicured lawns, with shrubs in the midst of rock gardens, all of which often smells of freshly-laid fertilizer (which you can decide for yourself whether it’s good or bad; you can appreciate the look and the smell of effort that goes into it, but when you get too close to the plants, the stench can be overwhelming at times). Once you’re further into the the parking lot, however, all bets are off. Some places still look nice enough, but there are the occasional surprises.

About this time last year, I came across a used condom out back in the edges of the lot surrounding the larger building in back. I kept noting its presence on multiple treks to the gym; it probably took the better part of two to three months before someone removed it. I’m embarrassed to admit that a thing like that was enough to make me a bit wistful, as well as irritated; it’s not quite the same as a public display of affection, but the annoying implication that someone is (or was) having that kind of fun when I wasn’t got under my skin every time I passed by it.

Since then, the place has been reasonably free of such detritus, but the other day, I encountered another mess on the ground, which at least had the virtue of being somewhat natural, in comparison to the last bit of litter that had so offended me previously:

Had you seen it yourself, you might have lamented the poor bird’s condition, and what brought it to this point, and for good reason; it certainly seemed to have suffered. But that is how things go sometimes. This being on that ‘secret passage’ to the gym, most people would never see it, let alone give it a second thought.

For my part, when I spot a dead bird on the ground like this, I can’t help but think of the line from the Sermon on the Mount, about how insignificant a creature like this is in human perception (“are they not sold for a penny?”) And yet, Jesus goes on to remind His listeners, not a single one of them can fall without the Father knowing it. We have hymns that speak of how “His eye is on the sparrow,” adding that, based on that fact, “I know He watches me.”

But here’s the takeaway I always had from that; He knows, yes, but He still lets the sparrow fall all the same. He doesn’t intervene to save it, and often times, He doesn’t appear to do so in human affairs, either. This is the sort of thing I was wrestling with in those last few years of having to get through each working day, with the constant verbal berating from Mohinder; why won’t God (I almost wrote down “can’t,” but I know better than that, as He can do anything) step in and rescue me? I wrote a little chorus at the time that I think I sang you once or twice; like me, you didn’t really know where to go with it, in terms of verses:

But the sparrow falls
And I fall, too.
Lord, my faith is small
Help me trust in you.

You see, I wanted to have faith that things would get better – and in fairness, we knew that there would be a way out, eventually, both here and hereafter – but in the moment, it struck me that it wasn’t that the Lord would catch the sparrow, and spare it its fate. No, the poor thing would hit the ground, much like this one that I was passing by on my way back from the gym the other day.

And in the midst of some of my worst days, that seemed to be what was going on, too; He was letting me fall.

Now, I’m not saying this because I’m going through some awful period of my life at the moment; yes, I doubt I’ll ever get over having lost you, and it hasn’t been that long since I’ve had to part ways with Dad (and I presume the two of you are probably swapping stories by now), but these are things I’ve been able to live through. If I fell, the impact only dazed me; I may have some scars, but I’m walking around. I won’t say I’m all right, but I’m in good enough shape to make it through each day for the time being. I’ve no right to complain.

But in that moment, that one little sight, I was reminded of some of those lowest points, and the added touch of despair that came from the realization that, while the Father sees it happen, the sparrow still falls. I remember telling you about it, and I remember you reassuring me as best you could at the time, and I’m grateful for you having gotten me past some of it (and Dad for helping me get past some more of it, once you’d gone).

But I still don’t quite know how to think about the way that fact is phrased. We won’t always be rescued down here; there isn’t always justice meted out in this life. I suppose the comfort is meant to be that regardless of that, God knows, but it feels like there ought to be more to it than that.

Of course, that may be part of what heaven is for.

And until I get there, I’ll keep asking for His – and your – eye to be on me, and to wish me well. My faith is so small, and I need so much more.