The Small Things

“The simple things are also the most extraordinary things, and only the wise can see them.”
Paulo Coelho

“Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different?”
C. S. Lewis, Prince Caspian

“The greatness of God appears most fully not in the thunderclap but in the whisper.”
George MacDonald

“The eye of God is not upon the grand gesture, but upon the humble task faithfully done.”
Dorothy Sayers

“God does not despise the small beginnings. He rejoices to see the work begin.”
Richard Foster

“He who sees in secret knows what is truly valuable.”
T. S. Eliot

“He sees the sparrow fall, and nothing is lost that is offered in love.”
Amy Carmichael

Sometimes there are prayers we hesitate to speak aloud, not because we lack faith, but because we have been conditioned to believe they are too small, too personal, too peripheral to the mission of the Kingdom. We fumble under the weight of invisible hierarchies—salvation prayers first, confessions next, intercession for others, and perhaps, if there is room left at the bottom, our quiet griefs, our fragile longings, and our smallest heartaches. I once had such a prayer, born not out of entitlement or shallow sentimentality, but out of honest love. Our family had a Golden Retriever—a gentle, loyal presence who had, over time, become more than a pet. He followed us faithfully, understood silence, and taught joy without a single word. When he was diagnosed with cancer, the vet gave us five to six months. Love motivated us to pursue treatment, but when it became clear the cancer was not responding, we stopped fighting the inevitable and decided instead to live the days well and make them count. The grief was quiet at first, a shadow trailing behind us. Although we tried to remain brave, the sadness settled in, and in that sadness, I found myself talking to God—not with grand petitions, not with lofty words—but with a childlike simplicity. Is this something I can pray about? It was not a question of whether I wanted to, of course I did, I wanted to pour out everything. I wanted to ask God for mercy, for time, for a gentle ending, begging for sleep instead of suffering. But there was something inside that caused me to hesitate, was this Kingdom enough? Spiritual enough? After all, it was not a salvation issue, it was not a revival or a breakthrough or a church-wide fast. It was just a woman about to lose her dog. Well meaning Christians even said it; he was not an eternal soul made in the image of God, he was just a dog.

Even the Cattle
But in that instant that I asked God whether this was something I could pray about, He reminded me of Nineveh. That remarkable moment at the end of Jonah, when God speaks of His compassion not only for 120,000 people “who do not know their right hand from their left” but also for “much cattle” (Jonah 4:11, ESV). The verse arrested me: when God mentions the cattle, He is not being poetic, He is expressing genuine concern for the entirety of His creation. God, so vast, so holy, so beyond us, had taken notice of the creatures we rarely think of as part of divine concern. It was not that God placed them above humanity; it is that He did not dismiss them as nothing. “Man and beast you save, O Lord” (Psalm 36:6, ESV). That line echoes like a quiet answer to a quiet question; does He see this too? Yes. Yes, He does. And not only does He see, but He calls it righteous to regard the life of the creature placed under our care (Proverbs 12:10). These verses were a pivotal moment in my prayer life —if He had compassion on cattle in a pagan city, could I not trust Him to care for the creature who had loved and followed us so faithfully? God, our infinite God, regards everything with care, He sees the great and the small, the eternal and the temporal.

The King Who Counts Tears
So, I stepped out in faith and prayed. I asked that my dog would not suffer. I asked God to be gracious towards us, to give us more time, and to take him in his sleep. This prayer was not the “name it and claim it” teaching because I made no demands, I was simply asking because God had invited me to. God granted us gracious favor. Our dog lived not five months, but two more years, and one day, we found him peacefully gone in his sleep. No pain. No suffering. Just wrapped in the quiet mercy of God —strong enough to still chase Magpies, and then simply at rest. There is something holy in such moments, though they rarely headline conferences, make it into sermons, or feature in theological debates. But they reveal something vital about the heart of God—that He is not only the God of sweeping revivals and parted seas, but also the God of small kindnesses and quiet mercies. That He is not only the Lord of thunder but also the Shepherd who is fully aware of our quiet heartbreaks and whispers, “I see.” It is the God who Hagar called El Roi as He met her in the wilderness—the God who sees (Genesis 16:13), because in the midst of her despair, she recognized that God was not distant or indifferent but intimately attentive to her pain. We often forget that the Lord who saw Hagar’s tears sees ours. Psalm 56:8 reminds us, “You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?” (ESV). What kind of God counts tossings? What kind of King records tears? Our theology should hold room for the God who not only commands stars but also bottles tears, who is not only sovereign but tender, and who is not merely omnipotent but attentive.

The Embodiment of Divine Attention
Jesus made this visible—“the image of the invisible God” (Colossians 1:15), “the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of His nature” (Hebrews 1:3), for “in Him the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily” (Colossians 2:9), and “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14). He walked dusty roads and lingered with children, touched lepers, and wept at tombs. He did not only die to redeem, but He lived to reveal, and in becoming flesh, showed us that nothing is too small to matter when it belongs to Him. In Matthew 10:29-31, Jesus says, “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows” (ESV). This is not merely about human worth, it declares that God sees it all, there is nothing that does not catch His eye. And if He sees the fall of a bird, then surely, He sees the ache in someone’s heart.

The Tenderness in the Details
We cannot allow false theology of grandeur to rob us of the nearness of God, because so often we act as though the only prayers worth praying are eternal prayers. But if we take the time to look closely at Scripture, we find a God who listens to the unremarkable. Hagar’s weeping in the wilderness (Genesis 16:13). Elijah under a broom tree, asking to die (1 Kings 19:4-5). The wedding at Cana where Jesus turns water into wine (John 2:1-11), not because someone’s life was on the line, but because someone’s joy was. These stories are windows into the personality of God, teaching us that He is not indifferent to our specifics, nor does He require us to filter prayers through perceived importance. God is attentive to us because He loves, and love does not require significance to manifest in our lives.

No Ache Too Small
So yes, it mattered to God that our Golden Boy die in peace. Not because animals are equal to humans, and not because our household deserved special treatment, but because God is good. And goodness, by its very nature, flows outward into the details. The gospel is not only powerful; it is beautiful. It does not only save; it restores. And sometimes, restoration looks like two extra years and a quiet goodbye. Yet even in these seemingly small mercies, God invites our deepest hurts before Him. So, if you are carrying a quiet ache, unsure whether it belongs at the throne of grace, let me tell you—it does. There is no footnote in Hebrews 4:16. It does not say, “Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, unless your need seems too small.” It says, “that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need” (ESV). And need, by its very nature, is not measured by scale but by presence. If it is present in your heart, it is valid in His. The world may scoff. Even fellow believers may shrug. “It’s just a dog,” they may say, but love never sees anything as “just.” Love names. Love dignifies, and love brings even the smallest grief to the altar. This is not about sentimentality, it is about a King who cares for the cattle in Nineveh, the hair on your head, and the dog sleeping at your feet. It is about a Savior who did not only die for your soul but who lives to intercede for your heart. Do not be afraid to pray the little prayers. The Kingdom is built on mustard seeds, and sometimes, the greatest acts of divine kindness are found not in mountains moved but in dogs who die in peace. He is good. Even in this. Especially in this.

So, dear reader, here is the question: what would change if you really believed He cared this much? Would you pray differently, not louder or more eloquently, but more honestly? Would you stop filtering your aches through the imagined thresholds of worthiness? Would you bring Him the things you have buried because they felt too small, too soft, too ordinary to be holy? Because this is not about dogs or grief or quiet prayers whispered into the night. It is about whether we believe in a God who sees and hears. Whether we trust in a Savior who inhabits the detail and not just the doctrine. Whether we actually live as though tenderness is not a weakness in the Almighty, but a revelation of His glory. This kind of trust—childlike, undressed, trembling with the weight of real hope—is what the Kingdom is made of. Not platforms. Not applause. Not the right words in the right sequence. Just the risk of being known, completely. So bring the prayer you silenced, the one you have talked yourself out of a dozen times because it made you feel foolish or soft or unspiritual. Bring it. Let it rise. Because love does not trivialize. And the God who holds galaxies does not flinch at your fragile prayers. The small things are not lost on Him. They never were.