His Eye Is On the Sparrow

     After 24 hours of travel, we arrived in Dimapur, Nagaland, in the country of India. It was a dusty busy city. As we traveled in the Black SUV, which my church helped purchase, my face was fastened to the window. People busy at work, walking home from school, selling wares, and groceries, lined the worn out streets. Taking in the Indian culture was an adventure.

     

     We were scheduled as a team to speak and sing in a little village, but first, we would have to travel 2 hours on extremely rough roads to get to our accommodations. On this road, we passed little villages, chickens, cows, and goats. The vehicle raced on, dodging countless obstacles in its path. The air was warm here in mid-January, but the vegetation was tan with dust. For Northeastern India, we were visiting during the drought season.  

     Finally, we arrived at a little 2 story home. As we entered, we saw white marble floors. In the summer the temperatures get so hot that sometimes the family said they would lay on the floor to cool down. In this part of India, they cook and eat fresh because there is no refrigeration.

The little room I stayed in was clean and quiet. I was relieved to find it comparable to an American bed room. There were no holes in the wall and the floor was not made of hard packed dirt. For my first mission trip without my husband’s hefty arms of protection, I thanked God.

     The bed frame was made of wood and stood 2 feet off the ground. The main difference was in the mattress, or in this case the mat. It was about 3 inches thick and felt like a rock. Using my winter coat and fuzzy robe I tried to make it more comfortable. That evening we all turned in early. My added touches to the mattress helped me drift off into sleep. Unfortunately, at dawn, I heard them, the sparrows.

     Outside the window by my pillow they spoke to each other, fluttered around, sang, and bustled. I had never encountered sparrows so personally before. Rolling over I tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use. I was in a new wonderful place. I had taken a leap into my dreams. I had heard and prayed for these people, the Nagas from Nagaland, but now I could reach out and touch them and hear their lyrical language.  

     The day before I had met some local pastors and their wives. I had visited the village church. I had heard their reverent songs of praise and their powerful voices lift up prayer. I had felt the faith of the bent over prayer warrior as I interceded for the healing of her stomach ailment. As I shut my eyes, her faith lifted my gaze to the heavens. Ah-lo-shey she called out “Praise the Lord.”  To this day, I cherish that moment deeply.

     Sitting up in bed, I listened to see if anyone was in the bathroom. Hearing no one I went in to take a bucket shower. This is when you have two buckets. One is filled with water (usually warmed up) and the other is used to stand in. With a cup you make your own shower by pouring the water over yourself.  

     Afterward, returning to my room I heard them, the sparrows. They were joyfully carrying on, as if to say, “Welcome to our world.” Looking out the window as the sun began to illuminate the morning. I spied a chicken with her chicks walking through the parched grass. I saw a little boy with his mother in the front of their thatched hut. Goats were grazing in the fenced in lot down the lane. I have not known you, little town, full of beautiful dark skinned, black eyed people, but I feel that I have always loved you.

     That morning when breakfast was ready we sat around a bright green table. Fresh bananas and toast, eggs and glasses of milk. The whole team felt refreshed after the night of slumber. Mentioning the sparrows being my alarm clock, we all laughed.

     Later in the service, I sang “His Eye is on the Sparrow” and as I looked on a hundred faces I had never seen before I realized “How great is our God.”  I grew up in Waterloo, Iowa. Until recently, I hadn’t thought about a place called Nagaland. An Indian state full of tribal people, each with their own dialect. But God had taken care of them.   

     I remember the first time I wanted to sing “His Eye is on the Sparrow” for a church service at Grace Brethren. My friend had invited me to sing, but tearfully I couldn’t find the cassette accompaniment tape (hey it was the 90’s). Later I sang it for my 91 year old grandma as she lay sick in bed. Her eyes lit up and with a smile she said, “Simply Beautiful.” I have sung it in restaurants, on street corners, on grand stages, and living rooms. This song is not just a song to me anymore, but a deep belief. A promise that no matter what God is there.

     As I sang over my new friends in the little Indian village, I felt the reassurance that God also wanted them to know his love for each of them. That Sunday morning about 100 people came forward to bow before the Lord. A village predominately Hindu, a village that had inflicted death to one of its first Pastors just a few years earlier. But on that morning they encountered the One who cares for the sparrows, They saw God’s love is real, personal and freeing like the words of this beloved tune…”I sing because I am happy, I sing because I am free, His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.”