Picture Prayers

Last week, my family was lucky enough to spend a few days at Kanuga.  If you read that, Cah knew gah, you've pronounced it correctly.  As far as I'm concerned, there are few places that compare to this  peaceful, fun, sacred space.  For years, folks have flocked to Kanuga for rest and renewal, for study and learning and to delight in nature alongside family and special friends.  It is a magical place.

Over the past few years, we have been invited to Kanuga for my Tim to serve as chaplain for a summer guest period full of happy folks on their yearly pilgrimage to the Blue Ridge mountains to a time and place that seems to stand still.   Normally, we are filled with the anticipation of a restful time, full of laughing and praying and walking and game-playing and long, lazy talks and learning and on and on and on.  This time, though, we were on the cusp of a big decision, a life-changing one that had the whole family on edge.

We were facing a big decision about leaving what we know and beginning a new adventure.  We were deep in thought; and, if I'm to be honest, we were angst-filled, too.  We were on edge.  We weren't ourselves.  We weren't 'doing what we do' at Kanuga.  We enjoyed our summer friends immensely, but we couldn't reach that peace-filled place that usually sets in about an hour after arrival.  We were surrounded by majestic beauty and quiet mossy waterfalls, but we weren't relaxing into it all.  The Kanuga lake was there in all its refreshing splendor, but our splashes in it weren't quite as care-free as most summers.  We were happy to be there, but our hearts were tied in knots.

We made our big decision while we were there.  We felt the push to leave what we know and begin another chapter in this crazy life.  We will soon make a move from Covington, Ga to Columbus, Ga - from Good Shepherd to Trinity.  Deciding feels good, but thinking about going home to begin the good-byes put us in an insular, awkward place.  I was happy to be surrounded by God's beauty; but I had a hard time wrapping my brain around all that was to come, and it was difficult to take from Kanuga all that it so freely gives.

One warm night after dinner, I wandered away from the group.  I grabbed my camera bag and headed down the hill, toward the lake, to have some quiet.  I reached for my camera with a confidence that it would help me see things in a different way.  I wanted to be silent.  I wanted to pray.  I wanted to gather myself, and I knew that the camera's lens was the friend I needed on the walk.

It might sound odd to pray with a camera, but I've done it a lot.  Bringing along the camera, makes me stop.  It makes me move slowly and watch.  Having the camera, and being alone, means I take my time.  I look more closely.  I take in the scene and I give it the thought needed to begin to understand.  I pause, I thank God for the moments I was too busy to notice before, and I listen.

I focus.  I press the shutter.

I pause.  I think.  I listen.  Sometimes I re-focus and press the shutter again. I'm not working towards perfection.  I'm not considering anyone else.  It's just me, being quiet and listening.  It's good for the soul - of that, I am sure.

I won't forget that walk.  I needed it.  I'll try to remember it.  I'll take with me the idea of knowing when it's time to walk away to focus, re-focus, press pause on the moment, be thankful and listen.  It's a good routine, I think, and I'm sure life always requires it.

That day I shot some photos I've already taken before.  That wasn't the point.  The process was what I needed - the seeing, the listening, the thanksgiving.

The pictures just help me remember.

Keeping cool . . .

Sometimes I like to consider peaceful things.  I like to remember places I've been, things I've seen.

(A long time ago) when I did a lot of SCUBA diving I would work hard to be conscious of what I felt.  I would move along in the water - flying, really - and carefully file away the scenery.

I wanted to remember that what I was seeing in the ocean, the peaceful and dreamy ecosystem, was happening all of the time.  I wanted to be able to bring those 'pictures' to my mind's eye whenever I needed calm.

When I'm having a stressful day or feeling overwhelmed, it works for me.  (Well, not all of the time, but I won't talk about that in the blog.)

If things in reality get TOO REAL, it helps me to stop and think about peaceful settings, places where I've known God's presence, where I've heard such calm, such quiet.

The colorful lands under the sea are just that - the beings there are moving effortlessly through coral and the sea fans are waving slowly with the currents.  I might be worried about the next hour or the traffic or the next shoot, but under the water's surface the same quiet still exists.

I like to look at these photos I took years ago.  I like to remember, to consider all of that happening still, right now.

 

I hope you enjoy.  Maybe you need to remember something quiet, too.

What helps you remember calmness?

Stillness . . .

Sometimes things get crazy.  Well, most of the time things are crazy.  I thought maybe today was a good day for the gift of stillness.  This is the best illustration I have to offer . . . my best shot of stillness.

This photo helps me find center and take a moment to breathe and slow down.  I hope it will do that for you, too.

I can transport myself back to this moment easily - can remember it well.  This photo was sort of my own little bitty miracle to witness all by myself.  We were at a fun spot in North Carolina, and by day this lake is busy and bustling with the laughter and splashes of people of literally all ages.  This is a family retreat spot, a place that has seen decades upon decades of multi-generational groups and place where three year old swimmers laugh and splash with their eighty three year old uncles.  It's a magical spot.

The magic of this moment, though, was that I came upon the lake just after the last of the lifeguards had tidied up and left the dock, just after the last straggling family had gathered their towels and such and headed up the hill.  There was almost a  deafening quiet.  I liked it.  I stayed around for just a few moments, listening and watching.  Slowly, I began to hear the birds, the waterfowl whose calls had been muted by the happy yelps of swimming kids.  I began to notice the turtles on the old logs popping their heads back up and returning to their sunning spots.  I watched the water, lazily lapping up onto the rowboats and canoes, felt the gentle breeze and enjoyed my time there.  I could hear the occasional yell from up the hill, as folks hurried for dinner.  I could hear a laugh or bits of a far away conversation and then soon . . . I noticed could hear nothing but the lake sounds.  I could only hear the birds or the slight splash of a tiny fish.  It was wondrously quiet.  It was.

And then I noticed this.  I noticed that as far as my eyes could see, there was absolutely no movement atop the water.  There were no ripples.  There were no splashes.  Nothing was blowing.  Everything was quiet, resting, being still.  I remember vowing at that moment that I wouldn't forget this special scene, that I wouldn't forget how it felt - how it felt when I witnessed this awesome quiet, this awesome stillness.  It was my own little silent miracle and I loved it.

I wasn't sure I could take a photograph that would accurately describe the moment, but I snapped a few in hopes.  And then I found a weathered rocking chair at the base of the deck and I just sat.  I sat.  I listened.  I watched.

And, happily, I can look at the photo above and transport myself back there.  I wish I could go there now.  Wish I could have a tiny taste of that moment in each day.  For now, I'll take the photo.  Hope it helps you, too.  Enjoy this little gift of stillness in the craziness that is our days.  Enjoy.