I couldn’t shake the heaviness. Sunlight made its way through the one window in my college dorm room, but my heart resonated with the shadows. Knots in my stomach twisted tighter, and the few steps it would take to fall into my bed felt like too much.

“God, where are you?” I pleaded. Questions and uncertainty weighed heavy, like the books filling the backpack I threw in the corner. Dropping to the floor, I couldn’t pray. I couldn’t even cry. All I wanted to do was lay there, face down.

For years, one question haunted me. It became the heckling jester commanding my heart: If I didn’t feel God’s love and kept messing up in life, how could I be sure I was really His? It’s the question that had me praying for hours every week after youth group, fogging the windows in my car as I begged God to save me. It broke me at a Christian concert as I compared the joy of the dancing, screaming people around me to the emptiness I felt inside.

The assurance I was rescued by a God who loves me—an assurance I thought every Christian was supposed to have—had left me long before I found myself crumpled up on that floor. There, in the shadows of that room, after two years of dealing with the jester’s heckling, I was ready to give up.

That’s when I heard the playful chirping. I looked up from the floor, and there it was. A sparrow was singing right outside my window!

The sparrows, I thought. God sees the sparrows. I sat up, staring at it dancing in the sunlight. What was that verse?

“You are worth more than many sparrows” (Matthew 10:31).

Truth, like the bits of sunlight in my room, was pushing away the shadows. No matter how lost and alone I felt, God saw me there, just like He sees the sparrows, and He loved me.

Thirty years later, my school district celebrated the beginning of school at the World Arena.  There were marching bands, t-shirt launches, and even some words from the Governor.  When it ended, thousands of district employees poured into the sunlight, and I waded through the crowd, deciding to relax in my car rather than sit in traffic. Cars rolled by slowly, emptying the parking lot, and I grabbed an old journal to read from my backpack.  Thirty minutes passed, and when I looked up, the lot wasn’t empty.  Someone was still parked a few spots over.

I looked at my neighbor, relaxing in his car, and the thought came to mind–Maybe God wants me to talk to him.

I dismissed it.

Just because we’re the only two here, I argued to myself, doesn’t mean we’re supposed to talk. Part of me wanted him to leave just so I wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.  I tried to pray in the quiet of my car, but the idea of talking to the guy kept coming back. When I actually considered it, my heart started pounding.

I was afraid.

That’s it! I thought. If I’m that afraid, maybe we really are supposed to talk.  I opened the car door, with my heart in my throat, and stepped onto the pavement.

I’ll just ask what I can pray for him about, I told myself, walking towards his car.

He was reclining in his seat when I got to him.

“Hey, how ya doin’?” I asked, feeling completely awkward.

“Pretty good,” he said. “I’m just waiting out traffic.”

“Me too,” I said. We introduced ourselves.  He said his name was Robert, and then I said it.

“Hey, I’ve been praying over there in my car, and thought maybe I should ask if I could pray for you.”

He took a moment to think, and I stood there on the edge of a limb I was hoping wouldn’t break.

“I’d never pass up a chance for prayer,” he said, getting out of his car.

He looked down at the pavement and thought a moment; his brow furrowed, and he said, “I’ve been struggling with knowing for sure that I’m saved.”

What?! I thought. Of all the struggles he could’ve mentioned, he brought up one I knew all too well.

His voice was starting to shake.

“I prayed to receive Christ when I was 32; I’m 64 now, but I don’t have peace that I’m His.” He looked up, and there were tears in his eyes. The memory of my dark dorm room in college came back to me.

I’ve been there,” I said. A fire burned inside me as we talked about verses and experiences God used in my life.

“Can I pray for you?” I asked.

He nodded.

When I reached out to pray for him, he grabbed my hand–almost in desperation–pulling me close.  And the two of us prayed, reeling in the wonder of what God was doing.

We finished, and both of us were smiling.

Robert broke the silence.

“That was so kind of you to come over.”

“Robert,” I said, pausing to make eye contact, “I’m here because God saw you sitting in your car with that storm inside you; He loves you so much that He made a way to let you know you’re His.”

He nodded his head, fighting back the tears. Traffic was gone, and the roads were clear, but neither of us wanted to leave.  The nearness of God in that moment was much sweeter than any school district celebration.

Driving home, I couldn’t stop laughing and lifting up my hands. I’m sure it looked a little funny to the other drivers, but the joy was too much to contain.

A piano started playing on my playlist. It was a few seconds into the song when a voice sang the words, “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.”

“You’re kidding me!” I whispered.  It was like a Hollywood script. The memory of that dorm room, the conversation with Robert, and then the song–it was all so perfect.

God saw Robert and I, just like He sees all of us, and as I drove down I-25, there was a peace I had in knowing He was the One writing our stories.  We saw the evidence of His handiwork that day, and every time I pass that parking lot, I remember.