The Hummingbird Who Remembers
A Meditation by Rev. Cameron Trimble
“If you look deeply into the palm of your hand, you will see your parents and all generations of your ancestors. They are always alive in you.” —Thich Nhat Hanh
A note: This week, I’m away leading my Wyoming Expedition—off-grid with ten amazing humans and over 80 beautiful horses. Since I won’t be writing these meditations in “real time” as I usually do, I’m sharing with you some of the stories I’ll be telling around campfires, on the shores of alpine lakes, and at the edges of high cliffs. These are stories that journey with us—quiet companions that do their work over time as we carry them within. I hope you enjoy them.
There are stories that offer answers.
And there are stories that ask you to listen.
This is one of those.
They say that long ago, when the world was quieter and people still listened with their whole bodies, a young woman named Amaru lived high in the mountains of the Andes. She came from a long line of weavers—women who threaded the memory of the earth into cloth, each design a quiet offering to the sacred.
But Amaru was untethered. Her mother had died. Her teacher had gone. The elders whispered that the thread of her spirit had become tangled. She felt it, too—like a silence inside her that had once been singing.
So one day, she climbed to the highest ridge. The wind was thin. The stillness vast. She pressed her back against a stone and wept—not with drama, but with that ancient kind of sorrow that lives in the bones. The kind that asks no questions. The kind that simply aches.
Then—a sound.
Whirrrrr.
A flash of green, a shimmer of wings: a hummingbird.
It hovered in front of her, still as breath, beating like a heart just beneath the surface of silence. She followed it—not with certainty, but with that soft kind of instinct that rises when words fall away.
It led her over stone and through thickets, to a cave hidden behind a waterfall. Inside, the darkness pulsed. The walls shimmered faintly, as if remembering. And in that remembering, Amaru began to remember too.
She closed her eyes, and the cave became the sky. She saw her ancestors—not as names or photos, but as presence, as rhythm, as song. They were dancing and weaving and soaring, reminding her: you are not alone.
The hummingbird hovered near her chest. And a voice—not outside, but within—whispered:
“We walk with you. We always have. Be still, and you will remember.”
When she returned to her village, Amaru weaved differently. The stories in her cloth shimmered with new color, new memory. She didn’t speak of the cave. She didn’t need to. People felt it. In her presence, they remembered their own rootedness, their own sky.
And ever since, when someone in the village is lost, they say:
“Look for the hummingbird. She shows the way back to those who walk with you.”
This is not a story to solve. It is a story to feel. Perhaps today, that hummingbird is hovering near your own heart, waiting for you to follow.
We are in this together,
Cameron
Reflection Questions
Is there a memory, story, or person who has walked with you—even when you’ve felt alone?
What forms of guidance have shown up in your life when you felt most lost?
In what ways are you being called to remember your rootedness—through ancestors, through nature, or through the quiet of your own heart?
A Prayer for the Day
For Those Who Walk With Us
O Spirit of the quiet places, Of hummingbird wings and cave-dark songs, Of ancestors who live in the marrow of our bones— We give thanks. When we feel lost, You send signs so subtle they can only be heard by the heart. When our stories feel broken, You thread us back into something whole. Teach us to trust the path even when it is unclear. To follow the shimmer even when we cannot name its source. To believe we are never alone—even in silence. May we listen with our whole bodies, And remember what we already know. Amen.
Spiritual Practice
Follow the Small Shimmer
Today, listen for the subtle guidance—the kind that arrives like a flicker at the edge of your attention. Take 10–15 minutes to sit in stillness. Before you begin, speak this question aloud or in your heart: What is mine to remember today?
Then simply wait.
You may notice an image, a feeling, a memory, or nothing at all. Trust the process. When something arises—however small—treat it with care. Journal about it. Walk with it. Let it unfold over time.
Like Amaru, follow what shimmers. Don’t rush to name it. Just allow yourself to be gently led.
Upcoming Events That Might Be of Interest…
August 11, 2025, 2pm ET - Dr. Andrew Root and I will be hosting a 6 part series on Spirituality in the Secular Age based on his research. The dates are August 11, 18, September 8, 15, and October 6, 13. Register here!
September 4, 4:30pm ET - I will be collaborating with the Anderson Forum for Progressive Theology to host a conversation with Thomas Jay Oord on Open and Relational theology. It’s a FREE event. Register here.
October 15-18, 2025 - Converging 2025: Sing Truth Conference (all musicians invited!) at Northwest Christian Church in Columbus, OH. Register here!
October 23, 30, November 6, 13, 2025, 7pm ET - In Search of a New Story: Reimagining What Comes Next, A 4-Part Online Series with Matthew Fox, Cameron Trimble, and Special Guests. We are living through the unraveling of many old stories—about who we are, why we’re here, and how we are meant to live together on this Earth. As these inherited narratives collapse under the weight of climate crisis, social fragmentation, and spiritual disconnection, the question becomes clear: What story will guide us now? REGISTRATION OPENING SOON!
I drafted a Strategic Framework for Congregations as we move into the coming years of increased authoritarianism around the world. If interested, you can download it here.
If you are a leader or member of a congregation looking for consulting support in visioning, planning, hiring or staffing, please consider Convergence.