His Eye Is On the Sparrow

Over the past few days, my grief has taken me to a different place (It does have a decent ending, I promise). As I think back over the many memories I have with my dad that were just shared between the two of us, I realize that I now am the only person who knows them, remembers them, or even really cares deeply about them. Even though my friends, family, and my dear husband listen and care about me, the memories themselves and what we shared could never matter as much to anyone else.

No one knows what we used to talk about on long walks when I was in high school, no one knows what the notes said that he penned and placed on my dresser nearly every morning of my adolescent life. No one remembers how he measured off 100 yards in the pavement in front of our house and spray painted a start and finish line and how he stood and timed me as I practiced for track. And no one knows what he whispered in my ear as he gave me away to Marcus ten years ago. It feels lonely in those memories now. Almost too painful to carry them and visit them all by myself.

Through the sadness, I realized something about me and about the culture we are submerged in. It is almost as if an event, a memory, a picture isn’t valuable unless it is “shared,” especially in the realm of parenthood. It’s like it doesn’t matter how cute the craft you made with your kids is unless you can put it on your blog and get 50 comments about it. Or even, I am guilty of this one, something funny or awful my child did isn’t really meaningful unless I can tell my friends and put it on facebook and have 86 friends “like” it.

I am not saying there is anything WRONG with doing either of those things, but when the “likes,” “shares,” and “comments” become the measure of the event or the approval we need to validate the greatness of it, something is wrong. Our very obsession with fame and celebrities puts a higher value on the public life over the private life. Publicity is utmost. And this is coming from a PR major. With Twitter documenting every thought, and followers dictating the measure of their worth, where has the “ambition to lead a quiet life” gone that Paul talks about in 1 Thess. 4:11? Does it still have relevance in the very public lives we lead from behind our closed doors?

So then I was thinking about Mary. I mean, if ANYONE on the planet has ever had a reason to Tweet or post on Facebook about her child, it was Mary (can you imagine the frustration of being her prayer partner, by the way? Well, little Jesus did all his chores without being asked while my kids are bludgeoning each other with the limbs they tore off their baby dolls). But what does Scripture say she did—In Luke 2:19 when the shepherds came proclaiming all that the angels had told them, Mary “treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart.” And in Luke 2:51 after young Jesus had been teaching in the temple and continued to grow in wisdom and stature, the Scripture said his mother “treasured all these things in her heart.” She didn’t go and tell all her friends. She didn’t Tweet it, so to speak, she didn’t change her profile picture to little Jesus teaching the temple leaders. She treasured these things. In her heart. Between she and God. And no one else.

This is where I am trying to go. God is showing me that it’s okay that Dad can’t recall or laugh about the memories with me right now. God can. And He does. And He cares, and they all matter to Him, every last detail of every last memory. Every hair on my increasingly grey head matters to Him.

Maybe that is why the discipline of spending time with God can be hard for us. No one sees it. No one knows. I don’t even really feel any measurable benefits at times. No one “likes” it on my Facebook page. But it is infinitely valuable. It is life. It is the only way to know God and to experience true joy and purpose. To commune with Him. In quiet. By myself. Just God and me.

God knows all things and He is in ALL things. He was there in each moment with my dad and He is here in each moment of grief. His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me. I don’t have to “share” my status to know that it matters to God and therefore it matters infinitely. And while I am writing this, I do realize the irony in my “sharing” all of this with you…

Does this mean I will not be posting about lice signs in front of my school or my Bulldogs? No (especially if my Dawgs can keep winning!). Does it mean I will stop my grief counseling on Facebook? Probably not entirely, unfortunately for you. And I will still totally "like" cute pictures and stories of all of your kids and probably post some of my own. I will refuse to waste chunks of time scrolling my news feed looking to be-- entertained? connected? in touch?? And I will desire to wean myself into (and be completely content with) a more private life and not care about who “likes” my status. I want to look forward to communing with God and remembering every detail of every wonderful memory of my dad with Him, unplugged, and feeling very NOT alone in it.

And if any part of this resonates with you, please don’t “like” it. Instead, just ponder it. Treasure your little moments today- of joy, laughter, disappointment, and sorrow- in your heart where only you and God can see. And treasure HIM above all else. Allow Him to lead us both away from a technology enslaved, public life and woo us to Him in a still, small way. And to “make it (our) ambition to lead a quiet life,” however that may look for each of us.