Patience in the midst of death … rejoicing … prayer? Elusive and often seemingly beyond my capacity in recent years. The waves flipped me – head over heels, cheek scraped against the rough sand, unable to find my way up, choking, gasping for a breath before being submerged again.
Tribulation is a lonely path, trudging up a dune, slipping backwards in the loose sand. Take the next step, gaze locked on the ground at my feet. The way is punctuated by hope – isolated, desolate beauty of wind-swept brush; intricate, ominous clouds adding depth to the sky and bouncing scarlet, violet, and blue beams of a setting November sun; the unbridled joy of a border collie chasing a stick into the freezing water.
For a while I lost all desire to photograph. I felt like the old window — fragile, flaking, weathered, cast aside without a home, glass pulled down by the weight of time and loss, rough edges smoothed out by sharp, irritating grains of my trials. Constant gasps of prayers, questions, screams at God – a raw and desperate form of worship. God is a whisper beside me and once again I feel a pull to create.
