My mother-in-law can attest that I was never a big fan of having my picture taken.  While I’ve always taken pictures, in part, to document our life, it wasn’t until two years ago that I really began to appreciate the power of a photograph.  Thanks, in large part, to my love for creativity, my dad’s terminal diagnosis, and two bloggers committed to the power of pictures to tell a story…Ali Edwards and Becky Higgins.  Their blogs and projects inspired me, and a few on-line photo classes, after the gift of a new camera, led me out of my shutter fear.

For a long time, I looked at photography with a certain level of formality.  They were preserving a piece of the past.  Yet, when I looked at really old, old pictures…you know…the black and whites from days gone long by…I was enthralled.  Who were they?  What were their lives like?  What did their relationships hold?  As pictures were expensive, many of those photos contain people dressed in their best, stiff and proper.

Looking back at pictures of my youth, I find an even stronger sense of connection.  Seeing pictures of me, that I can barely remember, standing with our Great Dane, Alex, or hanging on to a stuffed animal dressed in my favorite pajamas tug not only at my memories but also at my heart.  Those pictures I truly treasure and always have, because they help me to remember what I too easily have forgotten.

But it was not until this moment…this simple picture that I realized the power of a camera.  That it can do more than document a stage of life, it can capture a powerful emotion.  Looking at this, there is nothing special to it.  It is a picture of “weeds” by many people’s’ standards, but here…it is the moment when I gained a new perspective.

Here I was standing at the gate of my dad’s garden distraught at the idea of having to let go of him all too soon.  Nothing was making me feel better.  Not the tears.  Not the song.  Not the sunshine.  Not the warm gate.  Not being away from the metal bed that spoke of his looming departure.  Not a thing.  I just couldn’t see a way out of the pain.  In facing death’s hold, I could find nothing pleasant.

But as the tears slowed and my eyes began to clear, it was there that I spied one of those little white daisy flowers with the yellow centers.  At that moment, I realized that life goes on.  While I don’t mean that easily or contritely, it was one of my “ah-ha” moments.  I looked at that flower and its simple beauty, and contemplated that life has its stages.  No matter how we try or how much I wanted to argue with it, we can’t get away from it.  However, if we focus on the beauty, then maybe–just maybe–the pain can gain a new perspective even if it doesn’t go away.  That maybe there was beauty right here, right at the same time as this pain.

At that moment, I longed to document that thought as reminder for the days to come.  But I was standing at the gate with no pen, no paper, and little to no energy to go find some.  It was then that I realized I had my I-phone in my hand, and in essence, a camera.  I pulled it out and snapped a picture.  I knew that when I would later come back to the photo, I would understand why I took it.  As I looked through the camera to steady the picture, I felt this calming presence sweep over me.  A peace that I wanted to remember.  And what I found was that as I took more pictures, I found more peace.

And that principle guided me through the rest of my dad’s life.  It brought me courage to bring out my camera or my phone, and take the shot even though I was a little afraid or tired or emotionally spent.

Taking pictures brought me peace when all I could see was pain and turmoil.  Looking through the lens often helped me to regain balance and find fresh perspective.  And so, I found this new passion helping me to record as many moments as I could.

Not just for austerity’s sake but for the emotion that I was feeling…that we were feeling.  Knowing that in the rush of days ahead, we would not remember many of those moments if a picture hadn’t encapsulated and frozen them in time.  That life is filled with all sorts of moments, and it would be a shame–a misrepresentation–if we only left behind for others, the cock-eyed view that life is easy, pleasant, and always good.  That death can only be remembered in an obituary or a memorial card.

What I found with much excitement and hope is that pictures do not have to be perfectly posed to carry their weight and earn their value.  They just need to be about life.  I don’t have to only see smiles to capture the beauty of the day, even when that day is filled with great sadness and a feeling of being lost in a sea of unchartered emotion.

I want my son to look back at those pictures seeing how we lived life both in good times and bad.  That sometimes tears and sadness are the best measure for the situation.  I want our pictures to be about life, real life.

You see, some day, someone will look back and want to know more.  Being that we  have the power and ability, I want show them what our lives were made of.  To feel and read about how we lived life.  I want them to know that our moments had details.  That life is much like a river, it has to be navigated.  So this is my story today, and the motivation behind why I share my photos and my words.  My prayer is that you will realize how important your story is in this journey that we share and call life.

“Tell it to your children, and let your children tell it to their children, and their generation to the next.”  Joel 1:3