It was one of those moments when something happens that you know is significant, but you just can’t place why. One of those small things that tries to coax you out of routine, as if to try and urge you to view life objectively for just one moment. One of those things that whisper in your ear, “The world is still a beautiful place.”

Sure, it was just a sparrow. But it was there . . . dead on my doorstep. Such a minute blip on the radar of life that, scientifically, it shouldn’t even be receiving a gift so small as a smattering of consideration, or the brain power required to process any emotion or thought. How many birds are there in the world? More than I would care to know about. Yet here was one of them, and its lifeless body was looking at me, begging to be noticed. Begging for someone to care.

Rewind a day, and I quite vividly remember seeing the same sparrow sitting outside my door. It caught my attention because it wasn’t instantly taking flight in fear of its life as I rushed past, getting ready for work in my usual whirlwind fashion. It just sat there, and if birds can be forlorn, this one seemed to embody the word. I remember strands of compassion crossing my groggy, early morning mind, pleading with me to do something, while the logical side of my mind shot back a terse reply that there was nothing that could be done.

When I saw its lifeless form the next day I felt a strange connection to that bird. As if we had been friends for a day, and I had been the one on the receiving end of all the good nutrients in the friendship. Yet the sparrow is probably one of the most irrelevant birds on the earth, made even more irrelevant by its uncanny habits of pestering peaceful picnickers for spare morsels of food.

And it’s not a particularly pretty bird, yet not ugly either. It doesn’t spread its wings with the grace of a magnificent hawk or the grandeur of a proud eagle. It’s just there. An embellishment of creation. The silver trim on a tablecloth. The dust jacket on a hardback novel. Nothing special, but, at the same time, something very special.

But why did I pause? Why did I care?

Because Jesus did.

“What is the price of two sparrows—one copper coin? But not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it. And the very hairs on your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows.”¹

I know, I even hesitated against the very title of this article as it seemed so clichéd. Just another pretty verse that has been well used, perhaps, but when the true implications of it hit you deep in your spirit for the first time, it becomes a staggering excerpt from a staggering book. God, in his magnificence, actually sees, and cares about, the moment in time in which a single sparrow falls and passes from this world. So what else does God see and care about, in that case?

The overtones are immeasurable.

No, I am not advocating that every time a cornflake falls to a particular area in my breakfast bowl it was preordained and has special meaning in my life, looked upon by God as somehow significant and important. I just don’t think life works that way. But I do think God cares about a whole lot more about my life than I give Him credit for. I so easily limit Him to safe cordoned off sections of my life, and fail to include Him in the other many meaningful moments of my life, of which He so longs to be a part.

And then there’s the ‘nothing specials’, the ones who feel like a mistake, the ones who think their life doesn’t count for anything or matter to anyone. If I simply mention two words which should never have had the opportunity to be paired together—teen suicide—the idea is quickly put across that there are many, many people who think it’s all just a big muck up. A ‘nothing in particular’. Just billions of cells and nerve endings and drops of blood and sinew and bones and strands of DNA, all woven together to make you: A living, breathing being.

I’ve been lied to if I think life is anything short of a remarkable miracle. And I happen to know the one who is the author of all miracles. He saw the sparrow outside my room, just like He sees, and wants to know, you and me. It really is a beautiful thing.

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Stephen Garton is a recreational writer situated in Northland, New Zealand, passionate about digging into Biblical truths and sharing them in creative, easy to understand ways. He has written multiple short stories and a gaggle of poems. He also writes things of a decidedly diverse nature for his personal blog, Assumed Relevance. Read more of Stephen's Delve articles here.