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The Sparrows Who am I that God should care for me? by Lindsay Dyer For weeks, I'd see a man standing in my complex's parking lot, throwing pebbles into a nearby area of trees. Cars would pass, and he'd wait patiently before throwing another. Is he really aiming for the trees? I wonder if he's insane. Perhaps he's lonely. Every day I pass this man, getting older, skin like leather stretched too tightly across his bones — deep brown and sad. Hair, white, but cut like a modern-day frat-boy, spiked in the front. He is like a college boy not yet ready to become a man. Wife-beater shirt and blue-jean shorts — every day, the same thing. Only, he looked older. One afternoon, I was leaving the complex and I noticed a gathering of a dozen sparrows in the middle of the road. I slowed down, admiring the unusual sight. To my right, the man stood at a distance, his hand full — not with pebbles, but breadcrumbs. Launching each crumb into the road, he stood far away so as not to scare them. He was feeding the sparrows. When I drove forward, the birds took flight. I saw his eyes follow them to the sky, as if he'd take off with them. He looked back at me, dejected. In my rear-view mirror, I saw him standing stupidly in the parking lot, crumbs falling from his fingers. Who are those sparrows that that man should care for them? That he should give such careful devotion to birds that harbor in the lonely trees of our cement complex? And then I thought, who am I that God should care for me? Another sparrow, hunting for my next meal — staring so closely at the ground, I don't notice the Hand that feeds me each time I am hungry. And when I fly away, I don't notice the eyes following, longing to show me the way. I am much too busy trying to save myself. Indeed, I am just another sparrow.