The Hummingbird's Crossing

Every autumn, the ruby-throated hummingbird — a creature weighing barely three grams — launches itself from the Gulf Coast of Louisiana and flies five hundred miles of open ocean to reach the Yucatán Peninsula. No pit stops. No food. No landmarks. Just the Gulf of Mexico stretching to the horizon beneath wings beating fifty times per second.

Biologists spent decades trying to verify this was even possible. Their calculations kept saying it shouldn't work. But every October, tens of thousands of these impossibly small birds make the crossing anyway.

They do not circle the shoreline in panic. They do not wait until they have stockpiled enough reserves to feel ready. They simply — go.

Jesus didn't say, "Stop worrying once you've figured out the logistics." He pointed to birds like this and said, Look at them. Your Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they are?

The anxiety we carry often rises not from real danger, but from trying to fly five hundred miles on paper — running the numbers, calculating every risk, rehearsing every failure — before we ever leave the shore. The hummingbird doesn't have that option. Neither, Jesus suggests, do we. The One who wired those wings with enough precision to cross an open sea has not forgotten your name. He knows what you need before you ask, and He has never lost a bird over the Gulf.