Grace is a Hummingbird

Grace is the color of hummingbirds' wings.


I went looking for grace on a day that I'd set aside for watching. For waiting.


I didn't see it in the unwashed dishes in the sink. I didn't see it in the smudgy fingerprints on the windows or the dirty clothes next to the machine. I didn't find grace in the little girl napping or in the homework at the kitchen table. I found nothing in the crumbs that needed sweeping or the table that needed dusting.


I went looking for grace on a Wednesday and I couldn't see it, no matter how hard I looked.


I should have seen the grace in a six-year-old's smile, or in the soft hand-holding of my littlest girl. I should have found grace in the wide smile in the photo up the stairs or in the quiet of an afternoon spent at home. Grace was there in my cup of hot tea and in the phone call from a friend. I should have seen grace in my husband's light touch on my shoulder as he walked by me in the kitchen or in his offering to take my daughter to school. I should have seen grace in the simple sunrise and the day that is setting earlier now. It was right there to be witnessed in the cool sheets on my bed at night.


I was blind to grace by choice.


On Thursday, I stopped looking. I gave up the search for the small beauty in the profane (that which is obvious in the sacred). I had closed my eyes.

And then, a hummingbird in October flew between me and my task. I had to stop or I would scare her away. She buzzed to stop at the sage flowers, and my world quieted immediately.


I recognized grace after I'd stopped looking


I could hear her wings as she hovered. In the grey dawn, by the overgrown bush in my own yard. And grace was the color of her wings - soft, slight, and beautiful. No brilliant sunrise or bright morning - just a tiny bird and her buzzing wings.

I guess grace sometimes comes in small things. Unexpected things. Tiny wings that can only be heard if you quiet your heart and open your eyes.