His Eye is on the Sparrow
I had been pacing around the apartment for days. Once again I walked to the window and peered through the glass, hoping I would see Robert, walking up the sidewalk. I told myself that it was possible a mistake had been made, and that my brother, as soon as he woke from a coma in the body bag, would slip out of the morgue at the hospital, and just to be funny, come knocking on my front door. I seriously thought this was possible.
At other moments during the long days at home alone, I sat on the floor, arms curled over my head, just rocking back and forth. If I denied the truth of my brother’s death long enough, maybe I could somehow undo the last two months. I felt myself losing ground, though. My precarious handle on reality was slipping away and a part of me wanted to let it go completely.
Later that week, I sat across from the pastor who had performed the service for Robert. “Is God real?” I asked. “I believe He is very real,” he answered. “Do you think Robert is in heaven?” I ventured. I was afraid of this question, more afraid of the answer. My stomach was at a roiling boil, and I knew the wrong answer would feel like a blow to the gut.
“I think God cares very much about people who are mentally ill,” Wilber answered tentatively. I didn’t push it. Just a glimmer of hope was enough for one day. “I need to find God,” I told him. “I don’t know how.” I knew instinctively, for me, in that moment of my life, that if there was no God, I was dead. I was laying it all on this one man to guide me to Him.
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he’s watching me.
-Martin and Gabriel
“Linda, there is a pastor of a church here in town that I think you would like. I want to talk to him before I send you over there. Give me a week, ok?” Fear of rejection filled me as I left his office. This was unknown territory.
I got the “go-ahead” from Wilber and entered the sanctuary of the small church in El Segundo, California on a beautiful October day in 1975. I had brought my brother’s widow along for moral support. Even so, I felt alone. I grabbed onto her arm and felt myself shaking. I was sure that the pastor was going to know whom I was and ask me to leave the building.
Everyone looked so nice in his or her Sunday best. I knew I stuck out like a sore thumb. At five feet, five inches tall, my eighty-two pounds barely covered my skeleton. My hair was long and stringy, and my clothes were patched. The Jesus Movement was going strong in this area of the country but this church was obviously not used to those like me, with my hippie garb and vacant stare. As the pastor began to speak, my mind raced ahead. I looked around for the exits.
The pastor was young, close to my age, I thought. He had looked right at me a couple of times, and I quickly glanced away. He finally closed his sermon and asked us to bow our heads and close our eyes. I wanted to be part of this group, this faith. I didn’t know how to begin and I really didn’t think I would be allowed to belong. As the last hymn was being sung, the pastor walked down the center aisle and opened the front doors, letting in ocean breeze on shafts of light. Turning, he waited to greet each parishioner, hugging each one as they said goodbye. I made it to the door, looking for an escape route through the crowd. Pastor Don was not about to let that happen. He grabbed me by the shoulders, gave me a big hug and said, “We’re so happy you are here with us, Linda!” I forced myself to look up at his face. I saw compassion and concern. My legs felt funny, and I swallowed hard, nodding at him.
That next week I ruminated. I feared that once Pastor Don knew more about me, he would regret being so welcoming. I wrote him a letter. I told him about how mentally ill I was, how messed up my life was, how I was living with my boyfriend, too ill to live on my own. I told him about my brother, and about my broken heart. I told him I didn’t think I could come back to his church, but I wanted to. I slipped the letter under the church doors and ran home. I wanted to get the rejection over with.
Later that afternoon, I got a phone call from Pastor Don. He told me that he had spent the morning making phone calls and gathering the people of his little church together to fast and pray for me the following Tuesday. He invited me to be there but told me he understood if I didn’t feel I could make it. They would be praying for me anyway.
I felt as if someone had handed me a life raft. I could only cling to the side right now, and attempt to hang on to the ropes. I had no strength to climb in. The sea was too rough, and I would be tossed about for a very long time. But there were others now, grabbing my hands, lifting me up every time I was about to sink. And sometimes, when I came closer to drowning than He would like, God Himself would step in and take it from there.