Of Yarrow and Sparrows

God cares about your prayers for small things

Photo by Yoksel 🌿 Zok on Unsplash

This spring has been a bit of a first for me in my garden. For years I have had flourishing raised beds full of vegetables. I have found so much joy in the hours spent tending plants, weeding, and best of all, harvesting delicious food for my kitchen table. But this year, with a massive garden going in at my parents place, in the spot of their property that we have christened the Meadow Market Garden, the need for vegetables here at my own space was small. Surprisingly, my need to plant things seems to have only increased—as has my need for beauty. So this year I determined, this would be the year that I learned to grow flowers.

“Can I buy some dahlia tubers from you?”
"No. But I’ll give you some.”

My dear friend Debi, a flower farmer from Fort Collins, was kind enough to get me started with a few plants. Dahlia tubers, some annuals she had started from seed in her greenhouse, as well as a few perennials she had divided like goldenrod and yarrow. But having had a miscommunication about the timing of my husband picking up the plants on his trip into Fort Collins, the yarrow had had to be pulled up during the heat of the day, and Debi was worried about it.

“Water it as soon as you get home!” She told my husband. We did, and I determined to get it into the ground the very next day just as soon as I could.

For a day it looked okay, but then I could tell the plants were going downhill fast. No matter how much water I gave it, the fuzzy ferned out leaves seemed to be intent on withering. I was devastated, and in a moment of desperation I prayed a prayer for my yarrow.

“Please Jesus, help my yarrow to live!”

This may seem like the silliest and most trivial thing to pray—perhaps it is. But this yarrow was more than yarrow for me—it was hope for springtime. It was a desire for beauty. It was a gift from a person and a place I dearly miss. It was a longing to bring a little piece of that place I had called home, down to this new place two hours south and east.

It was five days or more before I saw the first signs of life. There were of course, more than a few very scorched leaves. But I could see other parts of the plant perking up a bit—saying to the eastern sunlight, “Hello! I'm here! I made it!” I have never been so glad to see something growing in my garden.

Our seasons of darkness need these moments. They need these reminders that beauty is just around the corner, and that it’s worth asking for.

Even if it’s something as simple as a plant that survives less than ideal transplanting conditions. These prayers aren’t always answered the way we expect, but the glory of God still surrounds us, reminding us that we live in His Kingdom—even when sometimes it seems like darkness is winning.

When I was 19 I got my first tattoo. It’s a silhouette of a sparrow sitting on a branch, three more sparrows flying overhead, with the verse reference, Matthew 10:29-31 which reads:

“Aren’t two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Father’s consent. But even the hairs of your head have all been counted. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.” (Matthew 10:29-31 CSB)

I chose this image and these words because I wanted to remind myself that God cares for things as small as these; for the yarrow and the sparrows, and most of all—for me. I so easily fall into the temptation that I must be indispensable or “important'' to matter. My enneagram two heart is always trying to help, and sometimes my motives to truly and selflessly care for people, are all mixed up with my need to matter.

The truth is, all I ever really needed to do to matter was just be.

Like the yarrow—living, and growing, and putting out oxygen, and taking in the sun: it’s life alone was enough to bring me joy in the moment I planted it, and in the moment I saw it had come back to life.

Could I dare to believe that my being (just BE-ing) is cared for by the God who cares also for the sparrows and the yarrow? Could I move forward in my life knowing I can ask for the beauty that makes my heart swell, the daily miracles that remind me that I still believe despite all the darkness that I’ve seen?

A few months ago, I wrote a poem about the sparrows in my backyard (I’ll put it here in this post as well)—and here these small things are again, a constant testimony to me. The goodness of God all around me, trying to help me remember what I seem to always forget.

Perhaps my prayers for small things are actually my biggest acts of faith.

Photo by Vahid Moeini Jazani on Unsplash

While it is still dark

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.