Moments of Grace: The Moments That Teach Us

Grace doesn’t always arrive in grand transformations.

More often, it comes quietly. So quietly we might miss it if we aren’t paying attention. A pause we didn’t expect. A moment that asks us to slow down. A small, living reminder that tenderness still exists in a world that often feels sharp.

I’ve learned that the moments that teach us are rarely loud. They don’t announce themselves as lessons. They arrive disguised as ordinary days, as fleeting encounters, as experiences we don’t fully understand until much later.

For me, grace has often arrived in the form of a hummingbird.

I’ve held tiny lives in my hands, fragile bodies no bigger than a heartbeat. I’ve lifted them from cold ground, warmed them, fed them, whispered encouragement into the quiet space between life and leaving. Each time one blinked back to life, something inside me stirred too. It felt as though saving them reminded me that I was still saveable myself. Still worth tending to. Still capable of being lifted.

There were seasons when life felt unbearably heavy. Seasons marked by grief, exhaustion, fear, or uncertainty. Moments when I braced myself for impact rather than hope. And somehow, in those exact moments, a hummingbird would appear. Hovering near my shoulder. Resting on a branch just long enough to be noticed. A flash of iridescent green catching the light, as if to say, I see you. Keep going.

These are the moments that teach us, if we let them.

They teach us when we resist the urge to rush past them. When we don’t immediately label them as coincidence or dismiss them because they don’t fit neatly into logic. Grace rarely shouts. It slips in gently, asking only to be noticed.

Some moments teach us our limits.
Some teach us our resilience.
Some teach us how to leave.
Others teach us how to stay.
And some simply teach us how to soften.

I once believed lessons would come with clarity and certainty. Instead, I’ve learned that the most enduring truths are often whispered. They ask us to sit still long enough to listen. They ask us to trust that even in fragile seasons, something meaningful is still unfolding.

Grace is the softness that finds you when you’re bracing for impact.
It’s the shimmer of hope at the corner of a difficult day.
It’s the quiet reminder that you are not abandoned to your hardest moments.

The hummingbirds have taught me this:

Grace isn’t loud.
It isn’t dramatic.
It doesn’t always come with answers.

But it always comes.

And sometimes, it arrives with a heartbeat smaller than your thumb, hovering just long enough to tell you
you are not alone, you are still becoming, and the moments that teach you are often the ones that ask you simply to pay attention.

May you notice the small moments. They often carry the greatest wisdom.

Renda Hanson