before golden light crests the hill behind my house, I see a dozen small sparrows hopping through the shallow snow in the predawn dark of my backyard. they are bold—almost cheeky, as they peck their way through the dry grass & weeds & shriveled crabapples that have fallen from our tree. I have heard that He is aware of every feather & flap & not one has fallen apart from His notice. I realize He must know which weeds provide the best seeds & He plants these in summer’s abundant heat. these dozen small sparrows do not wonder who will feed them their daily bread. it is still dark while they sing their songs of joyful trust, knowing a feast has already been prepared. then there’s me—with my tear stained face pressed to the ice cold window pane hoping & praying, for a small sparrow’s faith. Header Photo c/o Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash.