I was fourteen the first time I walked into a hall of mirrors at a carnival.

I remember the noise outside — the lights, the smell of popcorn, the whole colorful spinning world of it. And then stepping through that entrance into something completely disorienting. Every direction I turned, there I was. Tall and stretched. Short and squashed. Wide in the middle. Narrow at the top. Laughing at myself, slightly unsettled underneath the laughing, turning to find the exit and finding only more versions of myself looking back — none of them quite right, none of them quite me. My reflections were funny and strange and a little bit of a relief when I finally found my way out.

I thought I left the hall of mirrors at fourteen.

I didn't. And honestly? Neither did you.

We just stopped noticing we were still in the hall of mirrors. The mirrors are still everywhere — social media showing us who we should be, comparison whispering who we are not, fear distorting every reflection into something smaller than the truth, the world holding up version after version of ourselves and asking is this you? Is this? What about this one? And we walk past these mirrors, day after day, laughing sometimes, unsettled sometimes, slowly forgetting what we actually look like.

There is only one mirror that shows you clearly. Only one that doesn't distort.

Yes, I [Jesus] am the vine; you are the branches. Those who remain in Me, and I in them, will produce much fruit. For apart from Me you can do nothing. (John 15:5, NLT)

Instead, remain. Stay connected. Let the life of the vine tell you who you are. Because here is what I know about myself — the most dangerous season of my faith is not when life is hard. It is when life is fine. When nothing is dramatically wrong, when the carnival is running and the lights are pretty and everything is colorful and moving — that is precisely when I loosen my grip on the vine without even noticing. No earthquake. No fire. Just a slow quiet ordinary drift. The most dangerous kind. Because I'm not looking for warnings signs. I don't think I need to be.

The Bible is a mirror. In it I see who I really am — who God says I am, what I'm called to be, where I've drifted. But I've noticed something uncomfortable about myself: how quickly I forget the moment I walk away. How fast the reflection fades when I loosen my grip and let the carnival noise back in.

But God — in His gentle way — keeps holding up mirrors, His kind of mirrors for me anyway.

Which is why I am so grateful for a walk along a bike path in San Diego that turned into the most unexpected hall of mirrors I have ever walked through.

I set out that morning with my camera and my expectations — both fully loaded. I was looking for something dramatic. A great blue heron. A pelican. Maybe a whale breach on the horizon. After a quick rain the clouds had parted, the sun was warm — don't we all want our clouds to part? — except as a photographer that glorious sunshine was creating harsh unflattering light and nothing was cooperating. Boy am I hard to please or what. 😄  So I turned around and headed back, a little deflated. That is when the carnival mirrors began.

The first mirror stopped me cold. A squirrel — standing straight up in a cluster of wildflowers, little hands clasped together like he was saying a prayer, the giving of thanks, completely at home in what everyone else was walking past and calling weeds. I got low to enter his unnoticed world and from his vantage those weeds looked like a wildflower garden. And I felt the quiet nudge of the first mirror, an image forming. My image. I grew uncomfortable. When did grace and prayer become so familiar I forgot it was a privilege? When did I last stop and say thank you for the ordinary blessing around me?

I kept walking and caught a flash of red at the corner of my eye — a small bird tucked in a bush, going about his business unbothered. I raised my camera not even knowing what I was seeing yet. It was the photograph that stopped time long enough for me to really look. He was standing on a living flower stem and reaching up to eat from a dead flower above him. Not living in the dead things. Just reaching back briefly for what still nourished him. This bird has become my second mirror. Am I standing in the living present, drawing from the wisdom of what God has already brought me through — or have I climbed up into the dead things and made my home there?

Then I spotted him — a hummingbird. Completely still. Perched right on a thorn. Not a branch. Not a leaf. Just a thorn. No softness anywhere. And he had chosen it anyway, iridescent green catching the light, perfectly at peace. This is my third mirror. How much energy do I spend fighting the thorns instead of letting them hold me while I gather strength for the next flight?

He [God] gives power to the weak and strength to the powerless... But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength. They will soar high on wings like eagles. (Isaiah 40:29, 31, NLT)

A little further I spotted her first — a butterfly, wings wide open on a cluster of purple flowers, resting there like she owned the place. I photographed her and kept walking. Then I found him — a caterpillar, magnificently hairy, making his slow determined way through the world. At first glance you might think he is just a hairy worm. But look at all those feet. He was never a worm. He just looked like one to someone not paying attention. Fourth mirror — and the one that undid me most. I had just seen the butterfly and suddenly I remembered — I have already been transformed. And I am still being transformed. The wonder of it. And yet how often do I look at myself and believe the worm version? How often has a distorted mirror told me that's all I am and I forgot to check it against the only mirror that shows me clearly?

Don't copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. (Romans 12:2, NLT)

Near the end of the path I found the bees — a whole bush alive with them, buzzing, never stopping. My lens was too long and I had to step back further than felt natural, and then I had to wait. Being still. Watching all that frantic beautiful busy-ness and waiting for one bee to land on just the right yellow flower. Now the fifth mirror. How often do I stay busy so I don't have to stop and look in the mirror? Busyness is just another distortion. Moving fast enough that the reflection stays blurry. But you cannot truly remain when you are buzzing past everything God is whispering.

Be still, and know that I am God. (Psalm 46:10, NLT)

I waited. The bee landed. I got the shot.

And then — the mirror that made me laugh hardest. A female mallard. Head completely underwater. Tail feathers straight up in the air. Fully committed to whatever she was fishing for down there, completely unaware of everything happening around her. Sixth mirror — and the most obvious one, which somehow makes it the easiest to miss in myself. Burying your head never changes anything. It just means you miss everything God is whispering while you're down there. And yes — I needed her to be a girl. Because in this story, she is absolutely me.

Here is what I realized walking back to my car: I saw a distorted part of me in each one of these critters. Every single one. The squirrel who forgot to pray. The bird reaching back into dead things instead of standing in the living present. The hummingbird fighting the thorn instead of resting on it. The caterpillar who believes she's just a worm. The bee too busy to be still. And the female mallard with her head completely underwater. I am that one, especially.

God didn't put those creatures on that bike path by accident. He put them there for me. His gentle persistent way of saying — look. Just look. Do you see yourself?

A couple of hours. That is all this walk was. And look what was waiting.

Two days later I drove up to my sister-in-law's property in the foothills where her vineyard stretched out in the early morning light. Merlot. Sangiovese. Row after row of tiny young grape clusters just beginning, each one quietly holding everything it would one day become. I walked out before anyone else was awake and stood in front of those young vines and felt the truth of it settle somewhere deep. This is what remaining looks like. Not dramatic. Not flashy. Just connected. Just present. Just quietly becoming what the vine is growing me toward one ordinary day at a time.

Then the birds hit me — not a whisper but a chorus, a full glorious overlapping symphony welcoming the dawn. But drifting up from miles away came the sound of the freeway. Two sounds. Both real. Both competing for the same air. And I had to choose. It wasn't automatic. It was a decision — a deliberate turning toward the God-made music and away from the man-made noise. That is the choice. Every single ordinary day. The carnival is always running. The vine is always there, quiet and steady. But only one of them requires you to choose it. Only one of them shows you clearly.

That is when the hummingbird appeared — buried so deeply in a flower that only one tiny eye was visible, peeking out from under his wing. Completely present. Drinking deeply from exactly what he was made to enjoy. Unbothered by everything else.

When did I last drink that deeply? When did I last get so lost in the presence of God that the whole carnival went quiet?

Taste and see that the Lord is good. Oh, the joys of those who take refuge in Him! (Psalm 34:8, NLT)

Here is what I know about the hall of mirrors: you are not alone in it. The drift is common. The forgetting is common. The believing of the worm version is common. The busyness that keeps the mirror blurry is common.

The temptations in your life are no different from what others experience. And God is faithful. He will not allow the temptation to be more than you can stand. When you are tempted, He will show you a way out so that you can endure. (1 Corinthians 10:13, NLT)

God is faithful. Even when life is fine and you stopped looking because nothing seemed wrong. Even when you forgot what you looked like. He has been holding the only true reflection the whole time, steady and clear, waiting for you to come back to it.

The distorted mirrors are not going away. The carnival keeps running. But there is a vine. And it is alive. And it is holding everything you need — to bear fruit, to be transformed, to rest on the thorns, to remember you were never just a worm, to say grace over the ordinary, to step back far enough to finally see what God is doing.

You don't have to perform for it. You don't have to earn it. You just have to stay.

Yes, I [Jesus] am the vine; you are the branches. Those who remain in Me, and I in them, will produce much fruit. For apart from Me you can do nothing. (John 15:5, NLT)

Remain.

My father told me repeatedly I would never amount to anything.

But THE Father told me I am a winner.

As I sit here in front of my computer I want you to know I am not writing this from a safe comfortable distance. I grew up with an alcoholic father. I know what it is to live in a grey world. Sometimes a black one. And I know the moment you face the choice — do I let someone else's darkness become mine? Do I become a victim and stay there? Or do I choose differently?

I chose to follow the light. Step by step. Even when at times all I had was a small flashlight.

When I was young I didn't have words for what I was longing for. I know now. I was longing for a Father who would clothe me in light. The moment I asked Jesus into my heart I was adopted by God. And I finally had THE Father — the One whose light, unlike anything the darkness can touch, cannot be taken, cannot be stolen, cannot be sent back as evidence of failure. Because here is what I have learned about light:

Light changes everything it touches. And it cannot be undone.

"The Lord is my light and my salvation — whom shall I fear?" — Psalm 27:1

I have two friends who are in the dark right now. And I suspect some of you are too. Not the kind of dark you sleep through — the kind that arrived with an illness different from anything before. Not just physical. A darkness that came with it, quietly draining the light, the fight. And sometimes news arrives quietly, not like a thunderclap, just a slow heaviness that settles in and doesn't leave until one day you look up and realize the darkness has become a pit and you don't know when that happened or how to climb out.

Maybe you know this place. Because the pit is not exotic. It is not someone else's story. It is Tuesday. It is the month that won't end. It is the waiting room and the test results and the 3am and the silence where the answers should be. The people who love you say everything right and mean every word and somehow the words still land just short of the place that needs them most.

And in that place the darkness always brings the same lie.

Don't bother looking up. There is nothing to see up there. No one is there. This darkness is what defines you now.

The lie is not just cruel — it is calculated. Because Jesus said "you will know the truth and the truth will set you free," which means the opposite is also true. Believe the lie and it will keep you bound. The darkness knows this. It is not just trying to discourage you — it is trying to bind you to a story that was never yours. The curse my father spoke over me was designed to keep me small, keep me down, keep me from ever becoming what THE Father said I already was. It would have worked — if I had been willing to believe it.

The freedom is already waiting. Right here. In the middle of the darkness. Not on the other side of it. But THE Father will not force you to look up. He simply paints with light — extravagantly, personally, relentlessly — and waits for you to choose.

"You will know the truth and the truth will set you free." — John 8:32

But look at that photograph. The land is in complete darkness. The lake is black. Everything at eye level is shadow, and if you kept your eyes down — if you believed the lie — this would be a photograph of nothing.

But I looked up.

And there is the Milky Way. Thousands of pinholes of light as if pressing through heaven's floor, the galaxy itself visible, and in the corner just the faintest blush of what is coming. The darkness is not hiding God — it is revealing Him. You can only see the pinholes because it is dark. The very condition the darkness uses to bind you is the exact condition that makes THE Father's light visible in ways the full brightness of day cannot show you. Not a distant God but a close one, so close His light is pressing through dot by dot, pinhole by pinhole, whispering the same thing over and over:

I am here. Look up. The lie was wrong.

"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." — John 1:5

Following the light step by step is not always dramatic. Sometimes it just means picking up a flashlight and walking out into the dark when everything in you would rather stay where it is warm and known and safe. That is what I did one cold morning at Mono Lake.

I did not plan this trip to photograph a sunrise. I had come for the wild horses. But camera ready, flashlight in hand, I made my way across dark ground before the rest of the world was awake. I couldn't see what I was walking toward, only what I was walking away from. The darkness of the childhood curse spoken over me was not going to be my story. So I kept following the light, one step at a time, even when it was only a small flashlight beam showing me the next few feet of ground. Because I have been learning — slowly, repeatedly, apparently forever — one lesson that keeps finding me:

Obedience before understanding.

So I went.

The change in the sky started happening before I had a word for it — first just a bruise of color along the horizon, then the clouds caught it, and this is the part I need you to understand, the clouds caught fire. Not after the darkness cleared. Not once everything was exposed. In the middle of it. The ancient tufa towers stayed in silhouette, hard and unchanged. But the water — the water closest to the light became a mirror of it, reflecting back every color THE Father was painting with light above.

Like me.

Not because I was strong enough to change, but because I turned toward the light and let it have its way with me. That is the difference between a heart that stays hard in the darkness and a heart that turns toward the light and reflects it. The darkness cannot make that choice for you. Neither can the light. Only you can turn. Only you can let it have its way. The hard things in your life may not move. But you can.

The darkness thought it was a wall. It was actually a frame. And over all of it, completely unbothered by what hadn't changed yet, THE Father painted something so extravagant, so personal, so wildly unnecessary that I forgot entirely why I had come.

I was there for horses. God had other plans.

"For God, who said 'let light shine out of darkness,' made His light shine in our hearts." — 2 Corinthians 4:6

I have photographs of every stage of that morning — from the first cold hint of color to the full light of day — and when I look through them something stops me every time: when we have the full light we don't need as much color. The extravagant painting — the impossible oranges and purples and pinks set on fire across the whole sky — that happens in the in-between. The not-yet. The threshold place between darkness losing and light not quite winning. That is precisely when THE Father goes absolutely over the top. Not at noon. Not in the full light when everything is exposed. In the waiting place. In the pit. In the month that won't end. In the morning after the news that arrived quietly and settled in like a weight.

That is when He picks up the brush and paints with light.

And at the end of every single day — when the clouds refuse to let go of His paintbrush and hold the color longer than seems possible — He reminds us again before the dark comes: look up. I am here. I will be here when the light goes.

When I saw these colors I didn't know yet that they weren't just for me. THE Father did. He was already painting for two friends who would enter the darkness months later — before they knew they would need it, before I knew I would be the one to bring it to them. And perhaps He is painting for you too. Right now. In whatever dark place found you — being told by circumstances, by illness, by cruel words, by your own exhausted heart that the darkness is all there is.

Once again the darkness is lying.

THE Father's light cannot be stolen, cannot be sent back as evidence of failure. It wraps itself around you in the dark without saying a word, clothing you in color you may not even be able to see yet. The darkness is not your story. What THE Father is doing with it is.

"I will give you hidden treasures, riches stored in secret places, so that you may know that I am the Lord, who summons you by name." — Isaiah 45:3

I took this photograph in Alaska and I called it Following. I was sitting in the tidal shallows watching this young brown bear follow the confident lead of a tiny gull across the flats as THE Father painted the world in golden pastels, and I was struck by the bear's gentle humble posture — this powerful creature quietly trusting its smallest neighbor. Here is what you need to know about gulls and bears: usually the gulls follow the bears hoping for clam scraps, trailing behind waiting to take. But this one walked ahead — leading instead of taking, giving instead of consuming.

That is the Holy Spirit. Not following behind cleaning up leftovers, but going ahead — into the mist, into the unknown, into the golden light you cannot quite see yet, just far enough ahead to keep you moving, trustworthy enough to follow even when you cannot see where you are going.

"But when He, the Spirit of truth comes, He will guide you into all truth." — John 16:13

And the bear — wet, head down, still in the middle of the in-between — walked behind with the most gentle humble posture. Not diminished by the following. Completed by it. That is not weakness. That is the most courageous thing in the photograph.

My two friends are that bear right now, and perhaps you are too — wet, head down, strength drained, moving through the mist one step at a time. The Holy Spirit is not behind you waiting for the scraps of whatever faith you have left. He is ahead of you, already in the next moment you cannot see, already in the healing that has not arrived yet, already in the golden light painting the world around you whether you can feel it or not. You are already clothed in it.

THE Father is not going to force your chin up. He simply paints with light — above you, around you, ahead of you — and waits. The freedom is already there, waiting in the middle of the darkness, not on the other side of it. Right here. Right now. In this. The choice — just like mine at that cold dark lake with only a small flashlight — is yours.

Will you look up? Will you follow?

"Fear not, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name. You are mine." — Isaiah 43:1

The darkness has been lying to you. Don't bother looking up it said. But God who sees you has been painting His light above you this whole time — every evening when the clouds grab onto His paintbrush and refuse to let go, every dawn when impossible colors catch fire in the in-between, every pinhole of starlight as if pressing through heaven's floor to whisper what it has always been saying:

I see you. You are precious to me. I have called you by name.

Look up.

THE Father is painting the light of His love above you.

And He has never once said you would never amount to anything.

"See, I [God] am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland." — Isaiah 43:19

So here is an embarrassing confession: I used to scroll right past some of the greatest wildlife photographers in history. Not because their work was not incredible—but because they shot in black and white.

I know. I KNOW.

In my defense, I have only been doing photography for a few years, and I was convinced that showing God's creation meant showing it in full, glorious color. Black and white felt like watching a movie with the sound off. Like you were missing half the experience.

Plus, I have spent my whole life hearing that "black and white thinking" was the problem with everything. Rules were too restrictive. Boundaries were for people who could not handle complexity.

So when I saw a contest that required black and white only, I almost didn't enter. Almost talked myself out of it entirely. But I had already edited this image of a fox kit biting its mother's nose—you can see her squinting in pain—so I figured, why not? What is the worst that could happen? I would learn something from the feedback, maybe make it to the finals, probably not win anything.

I hit submit and immediately forgot about it.

A week later I found another black and white contest. Same thought process: I have already done the work, might as well get some practice with this whole monochrome thing I clearly do not understand. Both contests were international. Both took months to announce results. And honestly? I did not think about them again until the emails arrived two days apart.

First email: Third place. Five other photos I entered received honorable mentions.

I literally had to read the email three times. Then I sat there thinking: "Wait, these are the same images I almost didn't submit because I thought color was essential? The ones I edited while actively believing black and white was... less than what I thought they should be?"

Second email, 48 hours later: "Congratulations on winning one of the top honors at the Exposure One Awards!" I had won something—they wanted interview answers for their digital magazine—but they did not say what I won. Just "top honors." Results would be posted that night, and the suspense was killing me. When the announcement finally went live, I think I stopped breathing: First place in category. AND. First place overall.

My first serious attempt at black and white photography. A medium I had been dismissing for years. And I had just won an international competition against photographers who actually knew what they were doing.

God apparently had a sense of humor about my resistance. I had been despising black and white as "less than perfect" for years—dismissing it as a small thing, an inferior medium—and it turned out to be the very thing that taught me to see clearly.

"Do not despise these small beginnings" (Zechariah 4:10).

But here is where it gets interesting—and uncomfortable. Because once the shock wore off, I had to ask myself: Why did this image win? And the answer stopped me cold: Because in black and white, people saw themselves.

Every parent who has ever had a baby grab their nose, pull their hair, bite while nursing—they saw this moment and recognized it instantly. The pain. The patience. The love that does not pull away even when it hurts. What you could not see in the winning photo is that the mama fox was nursing other kits at the same time. None of them suffered. Only her. That is love.

In color, we might have thought "pretty fox" and scrolled on. But black and white makes us stop. Make us actually see the story: a mother enduring pain because love costs something. That is not exotic wildlife. That is Tuesday morning at 3 AM with a screaming infant. The "restriction" of black and white did not limit the image. It removed the exotic and revealed the universal.

Or this one. We have all had that itch. You know the one—right in that spot you cannot quite reach. And when you finally get to it? Pure relief. That satisfying "ahhhhh, yes, THAT'S the spot."

In color, you would see "bear scratching." In black and white, you feel it. And I am starting to realize something uncomfortable: We scroll through life in color too. Fast, surface level, pretty pictures for the feed. We miss the real stories happening right in front of us. The love that is costing someone something. The small reliefs that make hard days bearable [pun intended]. The ordinary moments that connect us all. We treat everything like content to consume instead of truth to encounter.

Look at this. You can almost feel it, can't you? That moment when someone is talking to you and their breath is... well, less than fresh. And you politely turn your head while trying not to be rude about it. We have all been there. On both sides of that conversation, if we are honest.

Black and white stripped away the "wildlife photography" and left me looking at my own awkward life. My own messy relationships. My own moments of trying to be polite while quietly suffering.

And here is what's making me squirm: What if God's "black and white" truth works the same way? What if His clear boundaries are not meant to be exotic rules for super-spiritual people, but everyday frameworks for everyday life? What if when He says "love one another" or "bear with one another" or "forgive as you have been forgiven," He is not being restrictive—He is being relatable? He is saying: "I see your Tuesday. I see your awkwardness. I see the moments you are enduring because love costs something. And I am not asking you to be exotic. I am asking you to be faithful in the ordinary."

We have all had days where we look like this. Bedraggled. Scruffy. Definitely not Instagram-ready.

In color, we would try to hide this cub. Edit it. Filter it. Make it presentable. But in black and white, the scruffiness becomes... honest. Real. A moment of "yeah, life is wet and messy and I am doing my best here."

And I am realizing: We spend so much energy trying to live in color—filtered, pretty, highlight reel—that we miss the beauty in the black and white truth of ordinary struggle. We hide the hard parts. The messy parts. The days when we are just trying to keep our heads above water.

But what if God is not asking for the filtered version? What if He is inviting us to show up scruffy, to stop performing, to let the "restriction" of truth actually free us from the exhausting work of pretending?

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest" (Matthew 11:28).

Come scruffy. Come messy. Come as you actually are, not as you wish you were.

But here is where black and white gets really honest. Because it does not just show the relatable moments and the scruffy days. It shows this too. The storm. The weight of it. The feeling of facing something so much bigger than you, so overwhelming, so dark.

In color, we might try to make this beautiful. Golden hour lighting, dramatic clouds, nature's majesty. But in black and white, there is no hiding from what this actually is: hard. Heavy. The kind of moment that makes you wonder if you can keep going.

And I need you to know: if you are in that moment right now, black and white sees you too. The struggle is not exotic. It is not content for someone else's inspiration. It is your real life, and it is heavy, and it matters.

Or this. When it feels like you are alone. When the only company you have is your own shadow looking back at you. When the lie whispers: "See? No one is here. You are abandoned. You are on your own."

Black and white does not soften this moment. It shows it clearly. The isolation. The in-between space. The waiting. But here is what I am learning about black and white truth: It shows the hard parts clearly—but it also shows God's promises clearly.

"I will never leave you nor forsake you" (Hebrews 13:5).

That is not vague. It is not "maybe" or "when you deserve it" or "if you try hard enough." It is black and white. It is the clearest promise when you feel most alone. The shadow is not proof you are abandoned. It is proof there is still light—even if you cannot see the source right now.

And then there is this moment. Same storm. Same struggle. Same weight. But something is different. The bear is looking up.

Not because the storm stopped. Not because the hard suddenly became easy. But because in the middle of the adversity, there is something about lifting your head. About choosing hope even when hope feels hard.

You can almost feel the wind in this image. The resistance. The cost of standing. But you can also feel something else: determination. Perseverance. The refusal to let the storm have the final word.

And I am sitting here thinking about how black and white shows BOTH—the struggle AND the hope. The weight AND the looking up. It does not hide either one or pretend one does not exist. That is real life. That is the black and white truth we try to avoid by living in filtered color: Hard moments exist. AND hope exists. Struggle is real. AND God's presence is real. Both. At the same time.

"We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed" (2 Corinthians 4:8-9).

The contrast is not optional. It is the whole truth.

Because here is what else black and white shows: relief comes. The itch gets scratched. The storm passes. The tears turn to joy—maybe not immediately, maybe not as fast as we want, but they turn.

And when black and white shows that moment of relief, of light breaking through, of finally catching your breath—it is not performance. It is not pretending the hard parts did not happen. It is the whole story. The struggle AND the relief. The waiting AND the breakthrough. The looking up AND the moment when you realize: I made it. I am still here. God was here all along.

So here I am, someone who used to scroll past black and white photography because I thought it was "less than what it could be," now sitting with three international awards and a completely different understanding of what it means to see clearly.

I was dismissing genius because it came in a package I had decided was inferior. And I am wondering now: what else am I dismissing because it does not come wrapped the way I expect? What wisdom am I scrolling past because it looks too black and white, too simple, too clear-cut to contain real depth?

Black and white did not give me less. It gave me more. Way more. It stopped me from scrolling and made me actually look. At the sacrificial love happening in ordinary moments. At the scruffy, messy, beautiful reality of real life. At the hard parts I wanted to hide. At the hope that exists right alongside the struggle.

And I cannot help but wonder: What are we scrolling past in our own lives because we are moving too fast through the color? What love is costing someone something right in front of us, and we are missing it because we are not paying attention? What ordinary moments are we dismissing because they do not look exotic enough to matter? What hard parts are we hiding because we think God only wants the filtered version? What hope are we missing because we are so focused on the storm that we forget to look up?

Maybe God's "black and white" truth is not the problem. Maybe our resistance to it is. Maybe His clear boundaries are not meant to restrict us but to help us actually see—to strip away the distractions and reveal what matters. The love. The struggle. The hope. The presence that never leaves.

"The law of the Lord is perfect, refreshing the soul" (Psalm 19:7).

Not restricting it. Refreshing it.

Because when we stop scrolling and actually look, when we let black and white show us the whole truth instead of just the pretty parts—that is when we see ourselves. That is when we see each other. That is when we see God. Right there in the nose grab and the scratched itch and the scruffy days and the storms and the shadows and the looking up. All of it. The whole story. Clear. Honest. True.

Black and white.

Maybe it is time to stop scrolling.

They had just come back from a car trip around the block with my husband. I was sitting on the couch when Akuna came bounding toward me, tail wagging—a rare moment of pure joy from a dog who had known so little of it in recent months. My heart lifted. Finally, I thought. Finally, she's feeling safe. Finally, she's coming to me with happiness instead of fear. Then Noah, my two-year-old boxer, trotted over to greet me too. Just doing what he always did—seeking love, wanting connection. And in an instant, everything changed.

Akuna turned on him with a viciousness that took my breath away. The attack was sudden, brutal, relentless. Noah didn't fight back—but she wouldn't stop until I intervened. I sat there shaking, my heart pounding for both of them. For Noah, who had done nothing wrong. For Akuna, whose reaction was so disproportionate to the moment that I knew—I finally, fully knew—the wounds I couldn't see were deeper than the ones I could. And there would be no instant fix.

That's when the words came to me, quiet and insistent:

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." (Psalm 34:18)

Close. Not fixing instantly. Not waving a magic wand. Just... close. And I needed God close. Because in that moment, I felt like I was drowning.

Akuna's brokenness was not from neglect. She had belonged to someone who loved her deeply—a person who had two boxers and gave them a good life. But six months before I would meet Akuna, her companion boxer died. Animals grieve just like we do. She was grieving. Then the unthinkable happened. Her owner passed away unexpectedly. When police came for a wellness check, they just took Akuna to the shelter. Just like that. One more trauma added to the pile.

The grieving family tried to find her, but the police report wasn't clear about which shelter she was taken to. It took them a week to track her down—a week of her being alone, confused, abandoned again. When they finally found her, they were faced with an impossible situation: heartbroken, traumatized, and unable to keep her. That's when a mutual friend contacted me. Would I be willing to give Akuna a home?

I already had Noah—young and energetic. But when I heard Akuna's story, I knew I needed to help. How could I not? This dog had lost everything. She needed someone to stay. I had no idea what I was signing up for.

When she arrived, she was sick from something she picked up in the shelter and got rapidly worse. I stayed up nights praying she'd make it through. Her body healed, but there was an inner condition that was going to take so much more time and care to reach. Something I couldn't see. Something I couldn't fix with medicine or warm blankets or even love.

As her health improved, she became more fearfully aggressive and Noah received the brunt of her fearful reactions. She would play with Noah willingly most of the time. I would watch them in the yard and think, "Yes. This is working." But then something seemed to click inside her, some invisible trigger I couldn't predict or prevent, and she would attack Noah with a ferocity that terrified me. Noah never fought back. Not once. He would just... take it. Absorb her rage without returning it. And I would stand there, hands shaking, heart racing, wondering if I was strong enough for this.

I didn't think I could keep her. There. I've said it. The thought that haunted me for weeks, that made me feel like a failure every time it crossed my mind. I had to protect Noah. But at the same time, I couldn't bear the thought of adding one more abandonment to Akuna's story. I felt trapped between two kinds of love—the love that protects and the love that stays. And I wasn't sure I had the strength to do either one well. That's when I cried out to God in a way I hadn't in a long time. Raw. Desperate. Honest.

I wanted the instant fix. I live in a world of instant everything, and I wanted that here too. I wanted the two-hour movie version where the broken rescue dog has one tender moment with the patient owner, soft music swells, and roll credits—she's healed. But in the middle of another attack, another setback, I had to face a harder truth: I kept reaching for the quick fix because I didn't want to wait for how long real healing might take. Truthfully, I have such a short memory of God's goodness. Such a quick forgetfulness of all the ways He has shown up, all the times He has provided, all the moments He has carried me. Why do I do that to Him? Why, when something new and uncomfortable arrives, do I act like I'm meeting God for the first time instead of remembering the faithful God I already know?

I was Akuna—not because I couldn't trust good things would stay, but because when discomfort came, I forgot everything I knew about the One holding me. And then it hit me—I'm heartbroken for Akuna when she can't remember she's safe, when she can't trust the consistent love right in front of her. But God must feel the same way watching me. I'm Akuna. And God is so patient with me. So good to me. Even when I have a short memory and act like every new discomfort means He has abandoned me.

And here's what hurt most: In those dark moments, God's goodness felt distant. His ways felt too high, too slow, too painful. I wanted Him to wave a magic wand and make this better. But God wasn't offering me a quick fix. He was offering me Himself.

"The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous run to it and are safe." (Proverbs 18:10)

I ran to that tower. Over and over again. Some days, I practically lived there. Because I was weak, and I knew it. I didn't have the patience. I didn't have the wisdom. I didn't have the strength to keep showing up when every day felt like another setback. I was exhausted. I was scared some days. I wanted to quit. Every part of me screamed for relief—for this to just be EASIER, faster, lighter. But even in those moments where I could barely see through my tears, I was choosing to believe God is good. Not because it felt true right at that time. Not because I could see how this is all going to work out. But because I know His character doesn't change based on my circumstances. I'm white-knuckling this trust some days. And that's okay.

Because here's what I'm learning: I can be willing even when I'm not happy about it. I can want God's best even when I hate the process of getting there. I can love God enough to wait even when everything in me is screaming for relief RIGHT NOW. My grip on God is tightening, not loosening—even when my hands are shaking.

“My [God's] grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness." (2 Corinthians 12:9)

God was my strength in my weakness. He was the one who whispered "stay" when everything in me wanted to run. He was the one who gave me patience I didn't possess on my own. He was doing deep work I couldn't see—in Akuna, yes, but also in me.

We sought professional training help for Akuna. And slowly—so slowly—there was improvement. But even now, over a year later, the healing continues. She's happy now—you can see it in her countenance, in the way she moves through the house, in the moments when she seeks affection instead of shrinking from it. She loves to play with Noah. And then even after a year, just when I think she's turned the corner, she unexpectedly attacks him in the middle of playing. Two steps forward. One step back. Sometimes one step forward, two steps back.

This is real life and it takes a lifetime. Not a movie montage. A lifetime of showing up, day after day, with no guarantee of when—or even if—you'll see the breakthrough you're hoping for. And the work isn't in learning the truth once. The work is in choosing to live it every single day when my feelings are screaming the opposite. Maybe you know what that feels like too.

Noah has taught me more about the character of God than any sermon ever could.

Minutes after an attack—minutes—he's ready to play again. As if nothing ever happened. No grudge. No wariness. No "I'll forgive you, but I won't forget." Just pure, undaunted love that keeps coming back, keeps offering relationship, keeps believing the best is possible.

"As far as the east is from the west, so far has He [God] removed our transgressions from us." (Psalm 103:12)

That's Noah. That's what he does every single time Akuna lashes out at him. He removes it as far as the east is from the west and comes bounding back, ready to love her again.

And watching him, I realized: that's exactly what God does with me. How many times have I lashed out at the very blessings God has placed in my life because something deep inside me forgot—just for a moment—that God has always shown up before? And God? He just keeps coming back. Undaunted. Patient. Near to my brokenheartedness, not with a quick fix, but with His presence that doesn't give up. Maybe you've done this too. Maybe you're exhausted from trying to trust when everything in you wants relief RIGHT NOW. I see you. I understand. Because I'm right there with you.

I wish I could tell Akuna: "You're safe now. You don't have to protect yourself anymore. You can just... be loved." But I cannot reach the broken places inside that still believes danger is everywhere. All I can do is stay. Show up. Be consistent. Love her through the setbacks. And trust that time and patience and relentless love will eventually reach the places my words cannot.

And then it hit me: this is exactly how God must feel about me. He longs for me to understand that I'm safe. That His love is not scarce. That nothing—absolutely nothing—can separate me from it.

"For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord." (Romans 8:38-39)

But He cannot force me to receive it. He can only stay close. Keep showing up. Keep offering grace. Keep loving me through my fears, my short memory that forgets His faithfulness every time something uncomfortable arrives.

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted. Not fixing me instantly, but walking with me through every painful, slow step toward wholeness. And He never, ever stops coming back.

Akuna is not "fixed." She may never be completely free of the fear that grips her in unexpected moments. The trauma may be too deep, too layered, too compounded by loss upon loss. But she is healing. She plays now—really plays, with joy I never thought I would see in her. She seeks affection. She has moments of genuine contentment where she lies in the sun and just... rests. The attacks are less frequent. The fear is less constant. And that's enough. That's the miracle I'm learning to celebrate.

Because healing doesn't look like perfection. It looks like progress. It looks like a dog who once couldn't trust anything learning to trust some things. It looks like moments of joy breaking through a season of pain. It looks like God's patient, persistent, undaunted love that says: "I'm not going anywhere. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever."

And I'm not so different from Akuna. I have my own triggers, my own short memory, my own moments when I reach for quick fixes because I don't want to wait. I have my own healing that's taking a lifetime. But God is my strong tower. When I'm weak—and I am weak so often—He is my strength. When I forget His faithfulness, He reminds me. When I want to give up on myself, He never does.

“He [God] heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." (Psalm 147:3)

Not instantly. But completely. In His time. In His way. And He never stops coming back.

What instant fix are you waiting for? What about God's goodness have you forgotten in the face of your current discomfort?

God is near to your brokenheartedness. Not with a magic wand, but with presence. With patience. With love that keeps coming back, even when you forget. Especially when you forget. Healing takes a lifetime. It takes daily choosing truth over feelings. It takes breathing in and breathing out. It takes remembering when everything in you wants to forget. And He is faithful for every single day of it.

I'm still learning this. Still living it. Still choosing—some days well, some days barely—to trust what I know about God instead of what I feel about my circumstances. Still running to the tower when I'm weak. And I'm inviting you to run there too. Not because we'll get it right every time. But because He's patient enough for the process. Patient enough for our short memories. Patient enough to keep showing up, keep loving us, keep whispering "you're safe" even when we forget.

He never stops coming back.

It's January 1st, and I'm doing what everyone does—looking back, taking stock, even thinking about resolutions I'll maybe keep for a week or two.

But here's what I can't figure out: I remember last year's moments perfectly, but the lessons? Those are starting to blur. I remember laughing at puffins dropping like rocks. I remember crying while watching Long Nose Bear with her cubs. I remember getting stuck in Alaskan mud while a bear watched with what I swear was amusement. But what they taught me? That's slipping away.

And here's what is bothering me: what if I spend 2026 relearning what 2025 already tried to teach me? What if next December I'm looking back at another year of profound moments, asking the same questions, realizing I've just been going in circles?

You ever feel like that? Like you're collecting moments that somehow are not sticking?

I was staring at last year's photos—those puffins and bears and mustangs who had been teaching me about life—trying to hold on to their lessons, when something shifted.

Wait a moment!

Every single one of these moments—I wasn't alone.

The kit foxes playing fearlessly because their mother stood guard. God was there.

Long Nose Bear, loving her cubs with a fierceness forged in loss—given a second chance after catastrophic failure. God was there. Me, stuck in mud, focused on what I thought needed fixing instead of where I actually was. When I was pulled free, it hurt worse than staying stuck—but that pain wasn't punishment. It was extraction. The living God met me there.

The mustang, examining my heart with those ancient eyes, and somehow—somehow—choosing me. Not because I was perfect, but because when Love looked into my heart, He found Jesus there. Yes. God was there.

The spoonbills carrying burdens too big for their size. The duck teaching me God's definition of beauty has nothing to do with my narrow expectations. The rats in the darkness reminding me that what we abandon doesn't stay empty. In every awkward, beautiful, broken moment—God was there.

David knew this impossible-to-escape truth:

"Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts." (Psalm 139:7-8, 23)

Oh! Wait another moment—I've been asking the wrong question entirely. I have been trying to master these lessons, holding them so tight I'm missing what actually matters. It's not about the lessons. It's about WHO was there teaching them.

"Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith." (Hebrews 12:1-2)

Fixing my eyes on Jesus—not on remembering perfectly, not on mastering last year, but on the One who was there when the foxes played, when Long Nose Bear got her second chance, when I was stuck in mud, when the mustang examined my heart. In a ghost town at midnight teaching me to see in the dark.

Every single encounter was Him—authoring and perfecting my faith. These creatures weren't just teaching me lessons—they were living parables, acting out truths I needed to see. God speaking through His creation the way Jesus spoke through stories of seeds and sheep and prodigal sons.

And if He was faithful in all of THAT—in the mess and the awkward and the ridiculous—then what am I so worried about? Yet, I realize something uncomfortable: even with God faithful in all of my adventures, I have been holding myself back. I've been waiting to be perfect before I practice. Waiting to embrace my awkwardness until I feel put-together. Waiting for broken parts to be fixed before I believe I can be used.

That is completely backwards. The puffins don't wait until they look graceful—they just drop like stones, and those ridiculous wings somehow carry their football bodies to 55 mph. Long Nose Bear didn't wait until her scars healed—she loved fiercely, carrying wounds only she could feel. They just live. Awkwardly. Brokenly. Beautifully. And God is there. In all of it:

"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." (Psalm 147:3)

Which is exactly what happened to me. I started doing wildlife photography later than most—worked hard from a young age, practical, responsible. Never dreamed of traveling to Alaska or lying in mud photographing bears. But then I picked up a camera and started showing up—awkwardly, imperfectly—and something unlocked.

It wasn't the destinations. It wasn't the perfect shots. It was the whispers of God in creation. Learning His character through His creatures. Seeing myself in the animals I photograph. Discovering that He speaks everywhere—if you're listening.

And here's what I want you to know: you don't need Alaska or expensive gear or to wait until you're ready enough. You just need to stop waiting. Because that's what I almost did. I almost waited because I thought I was too old, too late to the game, not a "real" photographer. I almost let those lies talk me out of the greatest adventure of my life.

But what if I had waited for perfect? I would have missed the puffins. The bears. The mustangs. Every single God whisper that transformed how I see Him, how I see myself, how I see the world. I would have missed the adventure.

And sitting here on January 1st, looking at a year's worth of moments that were slipping away—I realize something. Maybe I'm not supposed to master every lesson. Maybe God is building them into the foundation of who I'm becoming, brick by brick, encounter by encounter.

And if God was building in 2025, what is He building in 2026? I'm not worried anymore. I'm excited. Because the adventure isn't about mastering lessons or getting it right. The adventure is discovering that God is there—in whatever I encounter. And He's already gone ahead of me:

"For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." (Jeremiah 29:11)

What if this whole year ahead is full of awkward, ridiculous, beautiful moments I haven't even imagined yet? Creatures I haven't met, places I haven't been—all of them waiting to show me more of who God is? What if instead of clutching last year's lessons, I release them to Him—trusting that the One who was faithful in 2025 will be faithful in 2026?

Here's what I'm doing, and I'm inviting you to join me:

I'm going to watch less doom and gloom this year. Less consuming the world's fear. Instead, I'm going to spend more time looking for His whispers in creation. Looking for the treasure in difficulties. The light in darkness. The ridiculous grace in awkward moments.

I'm going to dive like an osprey. Play like kit foxes under His protection. Trust that getting stuck sometimes is how I learn where the solid ground is. And I'm going to do it with anticipation instead of anxiety. Because look what God already did. If He was faithful in all my past adventures, what is He going to do THIS year?

"See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland." (Isaiah 43:19)

So here's my question for you: What are you putting off until you feel perfect enough? What adventure are you postponing because the timing isn't right or you're not qualified enough? What if God is already there, waiting for you to show up awkwardly so He can meet you in it?

That's the thread from last year: God is always there with me through whatever I encounter.

"And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age." (Matthew 28:20)

That truth makes whatever I face this year not just okay. It makes it THE ADVENTURE!

Will you join me?

This December, my Christmas gift to you isn't wrapped in winter. It's wrapped in Florida sunshine and cotton candy pink feathers. Because the best gifts often come in unexpected packages—and sometimes what we need most in the grey wintery season is a reminder that joy looks ridiculous, and that's exactly the point.

Which brings me to these birds.

I don't know why these are my favorite birds. They're so goofy and awkward looking—somehow I can relate. I see them and I see me.

I mean, look at those legs. No, seriously—LOOK AT THEM. Like God was designing birds one day and got to the roseate spoonbills and thought, "You know what? Let's go full chopstick. Let's make legs so absurdly long that they look like someone attached a bird to a pair of stilts—but not just any bird body, a hilariously pink one. I mean PINK. You-can't-miss-it, stop-you-in-your-tracks, is-that-even-real PINK."

"And God saw that it was good." (Genesis 1)

But God didn't stop with just long legs and a pink body. Have you looked at that bill? I had to do a double take. That spoon-shaped, kitchen-utensil face makes them look like God couldn't decide between a duck and a spatula, so He said "why not both?"

And THEN—then He decided those legs should just dangle there during flight. Landing gear down most of the time. No sleek, tucked-away aerodynamics for the spoonbill. Just pink bird, spatula bill, and two impossibly long legs trailing behind like an afterthought.

"The Lord directs the steps of the godly. He delights in every detail of their lives." (Psalm 37:23)

Every. Detail. Even the absurd ones.

As I sat on the ground with my camera ready to capture my pink subjects, I felt their eyes lock onto me. The veterans with their bright red eyes, the younger ones with eyes still dark—all of them looking at me as if THEY were the ones capturing an image of me. Seeing something I couldn't see yet. Like they were all in on some cosmic joke I desperately needed to understand.

I started watching them more carefully. Heads sweeping side to side through the shallows, those spatula bills sifting for food with surprising grace. There's a rhythm to it, almost a dance. They're not rushing, not frantic, just... present in the work. Moving with purpose and what can only be described as joy. They're carrying sticks bigger than they are, flying back and forth to their nesting island like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And here I am with my camera, worried about settings, composition, lighting, proper editing—all those voices demanding my immediate attention drowning out the gentle whispers of God in the creation directly in front of me.

And the spoonbills? Wait! Are they smiling? They DO look like they're smiling. Something about that preposterous spoon bill, the way it sits there so unapologetically. Like they know EXACTLY how absurd they look. And they're absolutely delighted about it.

Had I traveled all this way from California to Florida just to photograph these birds? Not just any birds. THESE birds. The comically pink ones. Or was I drawn here for the spoonbills to whisper something I needed to hear? Something about being awkward and radiant at the same time. Something about remembering to smile in the good times and the hard times. Something about how God delights in the goofy details just as much as the glorious ones.

As they approached closer, their message became clearer. Not with words—but with those red eyes, that perpetual smile, that complete lack of self-consciousness. The message was uncomfortably direct and hilariously simple:

"Stop taking yourself so seriously. You're supposed to look ridiculous. That's the whole point."

And at that moment, I laughed out loud—not because I heard them speak, but because I finally heard what they'd been showing me all along.

But then the laughter faded and the harder question emerged: okay, so WHAT am I taking so seriously? What's making me forget how to smile?

Oh. THAT'S the image they were capturing. Someone who had forgotten how to smile while she worked.

When did I start taking myself so seriously? When did the whole world forget how to laugh? Everything has become so SERIOUS and HEAVY and CORRECT. But look at what God made: birds that look like flying spatulas with their landing gear down, sporting that funny bill—and somehow looking like they're SMILING while doing work that's anything but glamorous.

How much time have I already wasted on worry? How many moments have I missed because I was too busy being "serious" about my work instead of actually doing it? The spoonbills aren't worried about mastering the perfect technique—they're just present in the work itself. And the psalmist knew something about making the most of our limited time:

"Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom." (Psalm 90:12)

I have recently followed a long-time dream to learn photography, which means I'm older than most and trying to make up for lost time. Sometimes I overwhelm myself with the task in front of me—especially if it feels too big, too late, too much to master. But watching these spoonbills, they seem completely undaunted by the loads they're carrying. Unaware—or maybe just unconcerned—that the stick is bigger than they are.

They just... fly. Landing gear down. Stick hanging out at awkward angles. Looking absolutely silly and absolutely purposeful at the same time.

And then I remember Jesus' words:

"Come to Me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest." (Matthew 11:28)

Wait. Is THIS my lesson?

I don't just want to tell the spoonbill's story. I want their story to be MY story. I want to glide through the air looking dreamy and goofy at the same time—cotton candy pink or deep coral, it doesn't matter. I want to carry oversized sticks without worrying whether I look impressive doing it.

But here's the uncomfortable truth: I am the one weighing myself down. Not the camera. Not the learning curve. Not the "making up for lost time" anxiety.

Me. Just me.

So here's what living their story looks like for me, with the pictures as proof.

The spoonbills aren't worried about whether their stick is too big or their legs are too long or their bills look cartoonish. They're not comparing themselves to the elegant herons or wondering if they started nest-building too late in life.

They're just building. Flying. Smiling while they work.

The young spoonies aren't bragging that they still have feathers on their heads. The older spoonies aren't prancing around showing off their deeper pink color. They join together as a community—flying together, wading together, enjoying growing pinker together. The awkward beginners and the weathered veterans alike, all working side by side.

Nobody's comparing their shade of pink. Nobody's apologizing for their bald head or their still-feathered one. They're too busy carrying building supplies to worry about looking foolish.

And maybe that's the deeper truth I needed to see:

"For we are God's handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do." (Ephesians 2:10)

Handiwork. That's what we are. Not accidents. Not mistakes. Not "too late" or "too awkward" or "too ridiculous." We're God's intentional design—chopstick legs, spatula bills, and all. Created for specific work that He prepared in advance. Work that doesn't require us to be impressive, just willing.

I wish we could all be spoonbills. But I guess God wants me to learn how to smile just the way He made me—chopstick legs, ungainly features, and all.

Still, there's a lot to learn from these goofy pink teachers.

What if we stopped weighing ourselves down with comparison and just... showed up to do the work God put in front of us? What if we flew with our features on full display and called it GOOD?

"A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones." (Proverbs 17:22)

The spoonbills know this. Joy isn't something they wait to feel—it's something they choose while doing unglamorous work with unusual features. It's medicine for a world that's forgotten how to smile.

What are the spoonbills whispering to you?

Maybe it's about your own landing gear, the parts of you that won't tuck away neatly. Maybe it's about the oversized sticks you're carrying. Maybe it's about embracing how you're changing with time.

The spoonbills are still out there. Still flying. Still smiling. Still inviting us to join them.

I think I'm going to accept that invitation.

How about you?

The dirt road crests the hill and there it is - Bodie, California's most famous ghost town, preserved in a state of arrested decay. From 1859 to the early 1900s, this gold rush boomtown swelled to nearly 10,000 souls chasing fortune in the Sierra Nevada hills. Sixty-five saloons. One church. They came chasing dreams of striking it rich. Now the town stands frozen in time—maintained exactly as it was abandoned. Only the wind and the rats remain, moving through buildings that whisper a question I cannot ignore: What about my dreams? What about the treasures I have been storing? Jesus' warning echoes through these empty rooms:

"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal." - Matthew 6:19-20

The park ranger provided me special permission to enter buildings that most visitors can only peer into through dusty windows and doorways. It is early morning, before the park opens to the public. The general store is the first building they let me enter, and I was not prepared for what I would find there when I stepped inside.

Canned goods still lined the shelves in perfect rows - labels faded but orderly, as if the shopkeeper had just stepped out for lunch and would return any moment to dust them off. I stood by the counter where transactions once happened, then looked down. Behind it, hidden from the casual view through windows, lay the evidence of some long-ago earthquake: bottles, jars, merchandise that had tumbled from their displays and simply... stayed there. For decades.

I stood staring at the choice someone had made after this became a ghost town. Clean up the mess, or leave it exactly as it fell? They had chosen preservation over restoration. Arrested decay over the hard work of rebuilding. And I recognized that choice with a jolt that took my breath away.

I have had those earthquakes. We all have. Moments when life shook everything I thought I had neatly arranged and sent it crashing to the floor. The loss of home, possessions, friends. Betrayal from people I loved most. Dreams that shattered when the ground beneath them shifted without warning.

Standing in that abandoned store, I realized I could have made the same choice as whoever walked away from this mess. I could have built a monument to my damage, preserved my brokenness exactly as it fell, and spent the rest of my life carefully stepping around the pieces. God knows the world wanted me to. There is something almost sacred about victimhood in our culture - we are encouraged to hold onto our wounds, to build our identity around our damage, to stay frozen in the moment everything fell apart. For years, I tried to preserve my own brokenness like a hallowed relic. How much of my story became about what happened TO me instead of what God was doing IN me? The voices were constant, relentless: "You have every right to be bitter. Look what was done to you. You'd be crazy to trust again, to hope again, to build again."

But God's whisper was different, quieter, persistent:

“I [God] have plans for you. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

I had learned something those voices didn't understand: God's blueprint for restoration doesn't look like my careful arrangements. Where I saw irreplaceable loss, He saw space for something better. Where I saw betrayal, He saw the removal of what was never meant to stay. Where I saw endings, He saw beginnings I couldn't yet imagine. It wasn't immediate or easy. Some pieces were too broken to save. Others could be put back together, though they'd never look the same. The hardest part was fighting not just my own desire to stay broken, but the world's insistence that I should. But staring at those bottles and jars that had been lying on that floor for decades, I recognized I had made a different choice - I had let God clean up my earthquake damage. I could almost hear the ancient promise echoing in that dusty silence:

“I [God] will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten." - Joel 2:25

Room after room, building after building, the pattern repeated. The ranger had warned me not to disturb anything, not even to brush away the dust. This place was preserved in its decay, maintained in its brokenness. Worst of all, the hope of life had been reduced to nothing more than dust.

In the schoolhouse, I found something different - order. Desks lined up in rows, books resting on each one.

I leaned close, straining to read the titles through the dust and shadows. Advanced Arithmetic on one desk. And beside it, a paperback with curled pages - A Christmas Carol. I stood there, stunned by the irony. Here I was, standing in a ghost town, looking at a book about a man visited by ghosts sent to teach him the very lessons this town had failed to learn. Scrooge hoarded gold and nearly lost everything that mattered. He was given a chance to see what his choices were costing him - and he changed. But Bodie? A town full of people chasing the same earthly treasure, building the same monuments to gain, and they became the very ghosts they had been warned about.

The mortuary was where this truth hit even harder. Small coffins lined the walls and floor - some heartbreakingly tiny. Even in a town chasing fortune, the most precious treasures could not be protected from loss.

But here is what struck me: these were empty monuments to grief that never moved toward hope. Death preserved but not transformed. I have buried dreams too - relationships, opportunities, versions of myself that didn't survive. But there is a difference between honoring what was lost and building a shrine to staying lost. God does not waste our pain, but He does not want us to worship it either. The church should have been where this town learned that truth.

When I finally entered it, I found the church was the best-preserved building in town. Empty pews, perfect and untouched. I stood there wondering: Was this because it was built better, or used less? I'll never know. But I do know Bodie had sixty-five saloons and one church. The math tells a story even if the details don't.

I stood in the back of that sanctuary, careful not to disturb even the dust on those wooden pews, and wondered; how many people had filled these seats on Sundays? Some must have come, surely. But were they there to hear God's still voice, or simply because that is what you are supposed to do on Sundays?

They say the stamp mill ran six days a week, pounding gold from rock - so loud it became white noise. Babies slept through it. But on Sundays, when it finally stopped, all the babies would cry. A new generation disturbed by silence - the one thing necessary to hear God. The people of Bodie chose noise instead. Sixty-five saloons full of it, one quiet church where they might actually have to hear truth.

They were all seeking the same thing, really - freedom from whatever they had left behind, hope for something better than what they had known. But they were looking down, digging deeper, pounding harder, when what they needed was above them all along. How many times had I made the same mistake? Trying to pound meaning from the rubble of my circumstances instead of lifting my eyes to the One who promises to work all things together for good? David understood this choice when he wrote:

"I lift up my eyes to the mountains— where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth." - Psalm 121:1-2

I thought I understood Bodie's lesson. The choice between arrested decay and restoration, between preserving brokenness and trusting God to rebuild. But a few days later, when I returned for the sunset, the ghost town had one more truth to teach me. As the sun began to set, something extraordinary happened. There, in my viewfinder, grace appeared. Light rays from the setting sun burst over the corner of an old building, heaven's glory streaming over the very places where earthly dreams had died.

I was granted something rare that evening - access to stay after closing to photograph the night sky. The transition from sunset to darkness felt like walking from one world into another. As the light faded and cold settled in, the sounds began in earnest. Scratching. Squealing. The unmistakable noise of creatures fighting over territory in buildings where human dreams had died. The rats were not just surviving in these abandoned spaces - they were thriving, multiplying, claiming dominion over what had once sheltered hope.

As the squealing grew louder in the darkness, I found myself hoping the rats would stay in the buildings instead of joining me in the darkness. But that is what we always hope, isn't it? That the things feeding on our abandoned spaces will stay hidden, contained, out of sight. But in the stillness and darkness, you cannot avoid hearing them anymore. What grows in the places we abandon to arrested decay? What multiplies in the rooms we lock but never clean? We think we are preserving something by leaving it untouched. But nature abhors a vacuum. Something always moves in. Something always claims the territory we refuse to reclaim.

Then I looked up. The clouds had moved in, blocking the stars I had come to photograph. Time seemed to stop. Or maybe it just slowed to the agonizing pace that darkness always imposes. I kept looking up, searching for any hint that change was coming. At one point, the clouds grew thicker - worse before better. But I had seen a break, just for a moment. I knew it could happen. So I stayed. Determined not to leave until the change came through.

And then the clouds broke open.

The Milky Way blazed overhead - the same stars that had shone over Bodie's busiest days, the same stars that watched it die. They had been there all along. Faithful. Unchanged. Waiting for me to see what had never stopped being true. The stamp mill that dominated the landscape during the day was now dwarfed by infinity. The psalmist knew this perspective:

"The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands." - Psalm 19:1

This is what faith looks like in our darkest hours. Not the absence of darkness, but the choice to keep looking up even when time crawls and the clouds grow thicker. Not blind optimism, but determined trust - I saw it could happen, so I am not leaving until it does. The rats were still squealing. The cold was still biting. But above it all, faithful and blazing, the light I had been waiting for broke through.

Standing under that eternal sky, I understood Bodie's seduction. There is something almost comfortable about staying broken, about building your identity around your damage, about letting your earthquakes define you. They chose arrested decay. I have been tempted by that same choice.

But the rats were still squealing in those preserved buildings. The cold was still biting. And above it all, faithful and blazing, the stars that had watched Bodie rise and fall were still shining—unchanged, waiting for anyone willing to look up.

God's ways are higher than ours. The stamp mill that dominated this landscape now lies dwarfed by infinity. Where we see endings, God sees beginnings. Where we see irreparable damage, He sees space for something new. Where we preserve our brokenness like a sacred relic, God offers restoration.

So I'm asking you: What earthquakes are you preserving? What broken pieces are you carefully stepping around instead of letting God rebuild? What rooms in your heart have you locked and abandoned, letting the rats claim territory that was meant for hope?

The choice is yours, every day: arrested decay or abundant life. Even in your darkest hour, even when clouds hide what you're desperate to see—His light is there. Faithful. Waiting.

I have walked both paths. I choose life.

“I [Jesus] have come that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”- John 10:10

The stars are still shining over your earthquakes. The invitation is still open.

Will you look up?

The dust cloud appeared first— like a white wall rising against the Eastern Sierra peaks. Then they came thundering over the ridge: fifty wild mustangs flowing down the hillside like liquid freedom made visible.

I barely got my camera up in time to catch them streaming past—manes flying, hooves drumming the earth, the ground shaking beneath my feet. For thirty seconds that felt like eternity, I was drinking in something I had never experienced before.

Then silence. They were gone, leaving only the echo of something wild that had just changed me.

But God wasn't done whispering yet.

Hours later, I found myself at a desert water source where the gathering had grown to nearly a hundred mustangs. I kept spinning around, not knowing which way to look, overwhelmed by the abundance of life in this harsh landscape.

Where water meant everything, I was about to witness three different responses to the same invitation. I had no idea I would become part of the story myself.

The first thing I noticed was the peace. Most of these magnificent creatures moved with an easy confidence, grazing calmly, wandering to and from the water in what seemed like an ancient dance of sharing space. They had found something beyond survival—they had found rest in the midst of harsh wilderness. They carried themselves with the kind of freedom that doesn't need to prove itself, doesn't need to fight for every inch of ground. Watching them, I understood that God has accomplished in nature what He also offers to us humans as Jesus called out:

"Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I [God] will give you rest." — Matthew 11:28

But not all the horses had found this peace.

Two stallions squared off, the sound cutting through desert quiet like a thunderclap. But here's what stopped me: most horses barely looked up. A few turned their heads with mild interest, then went back to grazing. No panic. No choosing sides.

These horses understood something profound: someone else's conflict didn't have to become their conflict. Here was a different kind of "freedom"—the exhausting kind that fights for everything, sees every other horse as competition for resources God had provided in abundance. As if on a stage, I watched wisdom being whispered:

"For you were called to freedom, brothers.  Only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for the flesh, but through love serve one another." — Galatians 5:13

Then a new stallion appeared—kicking up sand, stomping, making it clear he wasn't sure this place was safe. I could see his desperation: he needed the water but was terrified of what trusting might cost him.

This was the third response. The one I understood all too well—knowing you need water but unable to believe the grace of water might actually be free.

Three other horses I had been watching suddenly turned their attention to me.  They walked straight toward me with purpose, and I realized with terror and wonder that I was about to experience what it feels like when perfect love decides to investigate an imperfect heart.

They flanked me like a gentle tribunal. The leader lowered his head and examined me—my feet, legs, hair, feet again. Each breath deliberate, each moment an examination I couldn't manipulate. All I could do was sit still and let him discover what I actually was. In that vulnerable moment, I found myself with an ache in my own heart praying the same prayer written long ago:

"Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts." — Psalm 139:23

Finally, he looked directly into my eyes. I tried to communicate: I'm not here to take or harm. I am just here to receive whatever you're willing to give.

Then he walked around me, paused to give me one final look over his shoulder—somehow conveying acceptance—and signaled I had passed some test I didn't know I was taking.

"The Lord searches every heart and understands every desire and every thought." 1 Chronicles 28:9

I had been chosen. Not because I was perfect or deserved it. I was chosen because when Love [God] came to investigate my heart, He found Jesus there—His righteousness covering my complete unworthiness, making me acceptable not because of who I am, but because of who He is.

"God made Him [Jesus] who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God." — 2 Corinthians 5:21

For the next hour, I moved among a hundred wild horses as their accepted guest. And while I experienced this incredible grace, I watched the fearful stallion continue his dance of wanting and retreating. The water was right there. No one would fight him for it. But the choice was his alone. That's when I remembered Jesus' invitation:

"Let anyone who is thirsty come to Me and drink." — John 7:37

I found myself silently pleading: Just choose it. Stop the posturing. The water is free. You don't have to fight for what is being offered as a gift.

Finally, something shifted. His defensive posture melted away, and he approached the water with tentative trust. I watched fear transform into freedom—not the false freedom of endless fighting, but real freedom that comes from choosing to trust the source of life. This day he would experience a new freedom:

"So if the Son [Jesus] sets you free, you will be free indeed." — John 8:36

In that desert, I witnessed the Gospel played out in wild horses. The fighters represented exhausting "freedom" that is really bondage—endless conflict over resources God provides. The fearful stallion represented all of us approaching living water—desperate for what we need but terrified grace might be too good to be true.

And the peaceful majority? They had found real freedom that comes from being chosen, from drinking deeply, from discovering that when your thirst is satisfied, you don't need to fight others for what they need too.

"We love because He[God] first loved us." — 1 John 4:19

But here's the truth that shook me most: I experienced being chosen not because I was perfect, but simply because I was willing. That experience transformed how I saw everyone else approaching the water source.

When you have been covered by perfect love through Jesus' righteousness, when you have been chosen not because of your worthiness but because of His—it changes everything. The fighting stops looking like strength and starts looking like exhaustion. The fearful posturing stops looking like a threat and starts looking like desperate thirst. The answer was in drinking from the true source of water:

"But whoever drinks the water I [Jesus] give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life." — John 4:14

The mustangs are still out there, demonstrating what real freedom looks like—sharing the water source, examining hearts with curiosity rather than judgment, offering acceptance that transforms strangers into family.

They are pointing to the One who created them, the One who looks at every fearful, fighting, desperate human heart and chooses love over condemnation, welcome over rejection. God has already made His choice—He chose to give us His gift of love and life through Jesus.

But like that stallion at the water's edge, the final choice is ours. We can keep fighting for freedom that is really bondage. We can keep circling, wanting desperately but too afraid to trust. Or we can choose to receive what has already been freely given.

"Choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve... But as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord." — Joshua 24:15

On that blessed day in the Eastern Sierras, wild horses taught me that the Gospel is not just something to believe—it is something to experience, to live, to let transform how we see every other thirsty heart.

The water source is flowing. The invitation is open. God has chosen you.

The question is: will you choose Him?

One photographer completely stuck in the mud. Then another. And another…Here we were, providing the morning's entertainment while the tide kept rising and we kept sinking.

And our audience? A bear sitting on the beach, scratching behind his ear with what I can only describe as amused interest, watching our predicament unfold like he had bought front-row tickets to the best comedy show in Alaska.

Some days, God decides to use His creation as comedy writers. And sometimes, if you're really blessed, you get to be the punchline.

“He[God] sits in the heavens and laughs..." (Psalm 2:4)

Let me explain how I ended up providing this particular muddy lesson in humility.

We had already spent a couple of successful hours on a different part of the mudflats, photographing bears happily clamming in the shallows. But as we traveled down the beach looking for new opportunities, the tide had shifted and was rushing back in. Time was running out for mudflat photography when we spotted something puzzling in the distance—a bear standing in water that looked far too deep for clamming.

Was he stuck? What was he doing out there in water that deep? Curiosity got the better of us, and with time quickly running out as the tide rushed in, we made a fateful decision: we would rush out to investigate. Apparently, God has a sense of humor about people who think they can rush through His creation.

"Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall." (Proverbs 16:18) - and boy, was I about to get a muddy lesson in that truth.

That's when I noticed something that should have been my first clue about the wisdom of rushing: the bear we'd been watching, the one I thought might need help, was now making his way toward shore with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. If I had been paying attention to his unhurried, deliberate movements instead of calculating camera angles, I might have learned something about mudflat navigation. But have you ever experienced that tunnel vision that comes with chasing the perfect shot?

That's exactly what the mudflats had been waiting for.

It happened so fast I barely processed it. One second I was walking confidently toward my dream photograph, [with not one, but two cameras in hand] and the next—

Wait. What's happening to my feet?

My knees slammed into what looked like solid ground, then kept going. And going. Both legs disappeared into mud that gripped like wet concrete, my body twisted at an impossible angle.

For a split second, my brain couldn't compute what was happening. This is fine. I can just... push up. Right?

I tried to push myself up. Nothing. The mud held me in an iron grip that tightened with every movement.

Oh. OH. This is not fine.

Around me, I could hear the sounds of other photographers meeting the same fate—expensive cameras held high like sacred offerings, voices calling out in alarm and embarrassment.

"I'm stuck!"

"Me too!"

"This isn't good!”

One photographer completely stuck in the mud. Then another. And another. And the bear I thought might be stuck? He was now making his way in, headed straight for us. I mean STRAIGHT for us—his captive audience trapped in the mud like sitting ducks.

Did he think we were fish flapping in the mud, making us an easy catch? Or was he now the curious one, wondering what in the world we were doing playing in the mud like that? He came surprisingly close to check us out, studying our predicament with what seemed like genuine interest.

I swear I could see him thinking something like: "Oh, they're going for clams too. Huh. That's... not how I do it. Are they all stuck? I've never had that problem."

Then, as he walked away from our foolish dilemma, I swear I heard him chuff - that distinctive bear laugh. He settled onto the beach with what could only be described as satisfaction, positioning himself for the continuing entertainment at our pride's expense.

He had that look of someone who had just discovered the most amusing thing he had seen all day and wasn't about to miss what happened next.

And here's the thing—we photographers weren't panicked. Well, maybe a little when that bear was approaching so close, but mostly we were all laughing at the absurdity of our individual but common circumstances. Here we were, supposedly professional wildlife photographers, trapped like children who had wandered into quicksand while chasing a butterfly.

That's when Adam transformed from photographer guide to professional human-extractor—apparently a skill they don't teach in any workshop I have ever attended. How he managed to navigate the same treacherous mudflats without getting stuck himself remains a complete mystery to me. One by one, he began the delicate work of freeing us from our muddy prison, and I watched him approach each trapped photographer with the methodical precision of someone who had clearly done this before.

When my turn came, I had complete trust in Adam, but I wasn't prepared for what rescue would actually feel like. He positioned himself carefully, gripped my arms, and began to pull. What started as mild discomfort quickly became something much more surprising—with my feet locked deep in the mud at an unnatural angle, my knees and hips were forced to twist in ways they definitely weren't designed for. It wasn't intense pain exactly, but the strange, necessary contortion required to break free from the mud's grip was far more uncomfortable than I had expected.

"I need to pull you higher," Adam said, and I could hear the concern in his voice.

Higher meant more pain. Higher meant being stretched beyond what felt natural. Higher meant trusting someone else's judgment about how far I needed to be lifted to break free. But even through the discomfort, I understood something profound was happening. This wasn't punishment—this was the inevitable cost of being pulled out of a place where I was never meant to stay. It reminded me of David's words:

“He [God] lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; He set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand." (Psalm 40:2)

With one final, determined pull, Adam lifted me completely free of the mud's grip. Rescued, shaking and muddy but I was standing on solid ground again. And through it all, our bear observer maintained his position as the world's most entertained audience member.

As we gathered ourselves together—equipment checked, dignity somewhat restored—our friendly bear made his final commentary on our adventure. He stood, shook himself off with regal composure, and ambled away down the beach, but not before casting one last glance in our direction that seemed to say, "Same time tomorrow?"

Standing there in my muddy waders, cameras miraculously unharmed, I started laughing. Not at the ridiculousness of our situation—though it was pretty ridiculous—but at the profound lesson hidden in this comedy of errors. I had come to Alaska to capture stories of God's wild creation, and instead I had become the story, with one very patient bear serving as God’s comedic assistant and commentary provider.

Here is what our audience member taught me about God's sense of humor: He [God] doesn't laugh AT us in our mudflat moments. He laughs WITH us, through the gentle eyes of His creation that knows exactly where the solid ground is and watches with patient amusement as we learn the hard way. It brought to mind Solomon's wisdom:

A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit saps a person’s strength. Proverbs 17:22

The bear understood something I as a photographer had temporarily forgotten: wisdom recognizes dangerous ground before stepping on it. But grace provides rescue even for those of us foolish enough to get stuck chasing the perfect shot. Our patient bear knew something I am still learning—that sometimes God uses the most unexpected teachers to deliver His most important lessons.

What strikes me now is how perfectly this captures our relationship with God. We march confidently across what we think is solid ground, focused on our own goals, missing all the signs that those who actually know the territory could teach us. We get stuck in places we never saw coming, trapped by our own overconfidence, sinking slowly while the tide of consequence rises around us.

And God? He has got the patience of a bear on a beach, watching our predicament with gentle amusement, already knowing exactly how to pull us free—even when the rescue hurts more than staying stuck, even when we need to be lifted higher than we think we can bear.

The real comedy isn't that I got stuck—it's that I thought I wouldn't. The profound truth isn't that I needed rescue—it's that rescue was already on the way, in the form of a patient guide who knew exactly how to pull me free.

Somewhere out there, our wise bear is probably still taking his morning spot on the shore, waiting for the next group of overconfident humans to provide his entertainment. He's got front-row seats to God's ongoing comedy show, where the punchlines always come with profound truth attached.

What about you? Where are your mudflats—those places where your confidence exceeds your actual knowledge? What would that bear see if he were watching your approach to the tricky ground in your life? Maybe it's time to ask the real Alaskans—God's creation—where the solid ground actually is. They've been watching this show a lot longer than we have. As Job learned:

"Ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you." (Job 12:7)

Just be prepared for the possibility that their lessons might come with mud on your boots and a story that gets funnier every time you tell it. Our bear critic wouldn't have it any other way.

The invitation came wrapped in exhaustion and possibility—another chance to witness God's whispers in the wild. Lake Clark, Alaska called, promising coastal brown bears and the raw beauty that only comes from places where humans are visitors, not residents. I had no idea I was about to witness one of the most profound stories of redemption I'd ever seen, told not in words but in the careful movements of a mother who had learned to love with the weight of loss. It brought to mind that ancient promise:

“He[God] heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." (Psalm 147:3)

They called her Long Nose Bear, and when I first spotted her in the meadow with her two young cubs, I saw only another bear family going about their daily routine. But as I watched her interactions with her little ones—one caramel brown, cautious and careful, the other deep chocolate brown, adventurous and bold—I began to notice something different. This wasn't just maternal instinct at work. This was motherhood refined by fire.

Our guide Adam shared her story in hushed tones, the way you speak of sacred things. Long Nose Bear had been a mother before. Young, inexperienced, she had treated motherhood like an extension of her own needs. When her favorite clams called from the mudflats, she would abandon her cubs to indulge herself, leaving them vulnerable while she satisfied her cravings. The brutal mathematics of the wilderness played out as they always do—only 50% of cubs survive their first year in this part of Alaska, and hers became part of that heartbreaking statistic.

To the casual observer, she had seemed unaffected by the loss. Bears don't mourn the way humans do, they don't wear their grief on their sleeves. But God was writing a different story in her heart, one that would only be revealed in how she loved the next time around. I was reminded of the comfort I've always found in knowing:

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." (Psalm 34:18)

Now, watching her with these two precious souls, I witnessed love transformed by loss. Where once she had been careless, now she was vigilant. Her nose constantly tested the air, reading the wind for danger that her cubs couldn't yet detect. Where once she had been selfish, now she was selfless in ways that took my breath away.

The caramel cub—I imagined her as a little girl—seemed to carry her mother's learned caution in her small frame. She stayed close, always aware of where safety waited. The chocolate cub—surely a boy with that sense of adventure—wandered further, explored more boldly, and received more firm correction from his mother. Not harsh punishment, but the kind of loving discipline that says: "The world is dangerous, and I need you to understand that because I cannot bear to lose you again." It was like watching those sometimes difficult words from Hebrews come alive:

"No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it." (Hebrews 12:11)

But it was at the mudflats where I witnessed the most beautiful picture of redemption I've ever seen. Long Nose Bear would dig deep into the sand with the expertise of someone who had spent years perfecting the art of clam hunting. But instead of devouring her prize as she once had, she would eat only half, then deliberately drop the remainder back into the sand where it was shallow enough for her cubs to dig it out themselves.

Teaching, not spoiling. Providing, not enabling. She was giving them the tools for survival, not just the temporary satisfaction of a full belly. In that simple act, I saw the heart of our Heavenly Father—the One who could give us everything we need instantly, but chooses instead to walk with us through the process of learning, growing, becoming who He's called us to be.

I couldn't watch Long Nose Bear's careful clam-sharing without examining my own patterns of giving. Do I hand over solutions too easily, robbing others of the growth that comes from digging deep themselves? Or do I withhold help entirely, forgetting that teaching requires both wisdom and provision?

Her method challenged everything I thought I knew about love. She could have easily dug enough clams for all three of them—her skills were certainly capable. But she chose the harder path: eating half, dropping half, then watching patiently as her cubs learned to work for their reward.

When did I last choose the harder path of teaching over the easier path of providing? When did I last trust someone enough to let them struggle while I stood ready to help, rather than rushing in to solve everything for them? The prayer that Jesus taught us suddenly felt more complex:

"Give us today our daily bread." (Matthew 6:11)

And what about my own learning? Am I still expecting God to drop my "clams" fully prepared, or am I willing to dig deeper for the lessons He's trying to teach me? The cubs didn't pout when their mother ate half her clam—they eagerly dug for their portion. Do I receive God's partial provisions with that same eager expectation, trusting that He's not withholding good from me but teaching me to participate in my own growth?

Her vigilance extended to the most creative strategies, and as I watched, I found myself squirming with recognition. She would bring her cubs closer to where we photographers sat, using our presence as a safeguard. She had learned that other bears were less likely to approach when humans were near, and she had no pride about accepting help in keeping her babies safe and allow a short nap.

How many times have I let pride keep me from accepting the "safeguards" God places in my life? How often have I struggled alone rather than positioning myself near the people and circumstances that could offer protection and respite?

But here's the harder question: When has someone else tried to use my presence as their safeguard—a struggling friend, a hurting family member, a colleague facing challenges—and I've been too busy or too oblivious to recognize that my simply being there could provide them with the safety they desperately needed?

In those moments, I wondered how often God places people and circumstances in our lives as protection, even when we don't recognize His hand at work. But I also wondered how often He places US as the protection others need, and we miss the call entirely.

When real danger approached—a massive male bear testing boundaries—the transformation was swift and fierce. She would send her cubs scrambling up the nearest tree, then turn to face the threat with a courage born not of fearlessness, but of love that had learned the cost of carelessness. Those aggressive males learned quickly that they didn't want to face off with a mother who had already lost everything once. She embodied the strength I've always admired in those words from Proverbs:

"She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come." (Proverbs 31:25)

My favorite moments came when she took her cubs to the beach for what could only be described as playtime. Like any good mother, she seemed to understand that growing bodies needed more than just food and safety—they needed play and joy. She would watch, sometimes even seeming to play herself, as they ran from log to log, climbing on nature's jungle gyms. Or perhaps, like mothers everywhere, she was simply trying to wear them out so they'd sleep better.

After these beach adventures, they would emerge wet and sandy, looking adorably scruffy. In their playful exhaustion, I saw the gift of childhood preserved even in the wilderness—the ability to find wonder and joy even when danger lurks just beyond the horizon. Jesus' words about children took on fresh meaning:

"Unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven." (Matthew 18:3)

As I watched this family day after day, I realized I was witnessing something profound about the nature of redemption—and being forced to confront my own resistance to it. Long Nose Bear hadn't simply "learned her lesson" and moved on. Her first failure had become the foundation of her second chance. The weight of her loss had transformed her into something she never could have been without it—a mother whose love was fierce because it had been forged in fire.

But watching her forced me to ask: What am I still trying to earn rather than receive? What past mistakes am I still allowing to define me instead of letting God redefine me through them? Where am I still living as if redemption is something I have to achieve rather than something that's already been given?

The most uncomfortable truth was this: I wanted the fairy tale version of redemption. I wanted my mistakes erased, not transformed. I wanted my failures to disappear, not become the foundation for deeper wisdom. But Long Nose Bear's story demanded that I embrace the beautiful, messy reality of love that has been refined by loss—not perfected by avoiding it.

This is how God works in our lives, but are we willing to let Him? He doesn't erase our past mistakes or wave a magic wand to make us perfect. Instead, He redeems our failures by transforming them into the very source of our strength and wisdom. Our scars become our sensitivity to others' pain. Our mistakes become our motivation for diligence. Our losses become the foundation for love that runs deeper than we ever imagined possible.

The question isn't whether God can redeem our stories—it's whether we're willing to let Him use our failures as the foundation for something better than we ever could have built on our own. Paul's words to the Romans have never felt more true:

"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose." (Romans 8:28)

But Long Nose Bear's story demands more than admiration—it demands honesty. As I watched her transformed motherhood, I found myself asking uncomfortable questions that echoed long after I left Alaska.

The questions stung because they were specific. When had I chosen the mudflats of my own cravings over the vulnerable hearts that needed my attention? When had I been so focused on feeding my own needs that I missed the deeper needs of my spouse, my loved ones, my community?

The cubs who played so freely on that Alaskan beach didn't know their mother's history. They only knew her present love—fierce, protective, teaching, and tender. They were the beneficiaries of a mother who had been transformed by loss into someone capable of love deeper than instinct, stronger than fear, more vigilant than mere survival.

But I couldn't help wondering: What story am I writing for those who come after me? Are they receiving the benefit of my failures transformed into wisdom, or am I still carrying my mistakes as burdens that weigh down everyone around me?

The cubs trusted their mother's transformed love completely. They didn't question why she made them dig for their own clams or why she sent them up trees when danger approached. They simply received her hard-won wisdom as the gift it was.

Who in my life is trying to share their hard-won wisdom with me, and am I receiving it as the gift it is? Or am I resisting the very lessons that could transform my own ability to love and lead? I could almost hear God whispering:

"See, I [God] am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland." (Isaiah 43:19)

The weight of love isn't a burden—it's the anchor that keeps us grounded when the storms of life threaten to carry us away from what matters most. But anchors only work when we're willing to stay connected to them, when we stop trying to drift away from the very experiences that could make us who we're meant to be.

So here's my challenge to you—and to myself: Stop running from the weight. Stop trying to edit your story to remove the chapters that brought you to your knees. Stop waiting for God to give you a different story and start asking Him to show you how He's already using this one.

What losses have shaped you? What failures are you still carrying as shame instead of allowing God to transform them into wisdom? What are you afraid to lose again?

Because that's where your truest transformation begins—not in the comfortable places where you've never been tested, but in the tender spaces where you've already been broken and are learning to love with the weight of that breaking. Paul understood this when he wrote with such vulnerability:

"But He [God]  said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me." (2 Corinthians 12:9)

The invitation came unexpectedly—a chance to photograph kit foxes on an island.  I had no idea what awaited me beyond the boat ride and the promise of "adorable babies."  But isn't that how the most transformative experiences often begin?  With a simple yes to something unknown.

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight." (Proverbs 3:5-6)

The den was masterfully hidden behind what appeared to be an impenetrable thicket of thorny hedges.  Only the patient observer would notice the small openings, the well-worn paths, the subtle signs of life within.  As I settled into position with my camera, I couldn't help but think of how God often places His most precious gifts behind barriers that keep the casual seeker at bay, yet yield easily to those willing to wait and watch.

"You will seek Me [God] and find Me when you seek Me with all your heart." (Jeremiah 29:13)

Then they appeared—one by one, tiny kit faces peering out with eyes full of wonder and zero awareness of danger.  Their early days consisted of only the essentials: eating, sleeping, the comfort of mother's love, and endless play with siblings. Watching them, I was struck by their complete trust in their hidden world, with no concept of predators beyond their hedge, no anxiety about tomorrow's meal, no worry about whether their mother would return.  As they were embracing the moments of today and I was reminded of God’s instruction written long ago...

"Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.  Each day has enough trouble of its own." (Matthew 6:34)

Each kit had its own distinct personality.  One bounced and pounced as if equipped with tiny springs.  Another was convinced buried treasure lay beneath the surface, digging with determined persistence.  A third played tug-of-war with tall grass, refusing to surrender.  God doesn't create us from a single mold but celebrates the unique ways we each engage with His world.

"Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God's grace in its various forms." (1 Peter 4:10)

Hour after hour, I watched their mother's tireless devotion.  She would disappear for long stretches, returning with small rodents or garden snakes.  But it was her homecoming ritual that moved me most—always counting heads, a gentle lick here, a nudge there, ensuring each precious charge was safe.  Then she would stand sentinel while they nursed, eyes constantly scanning the horizon.  How like our Heavenly Father, who never slumbers, whose eyes are always upon us even as He provides for our deepest needs.

"He[God] will not let your foot slip—He who watches over you will not slumber" (Psalm 121:3)

The fox community fascinated me.  Yearlings and other adults would come and go, checking on the kits, joining their play.  This wasn't casual childcare—this play served a purpose.  Older foxes were teaching hunting skills, survival instincts, social dynamics.  The entire community was invested in preparing these young ones for life beyond the den.

"As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another." (Proverbs 27:17)

But then came an evening that shattered my idyllic observations.

The mother and kits were playing among wildflowers as the sun painted the sky in soft pastels.  Their joy was infectious—tumbling, chasing, exploring with abandon. Then another fox appeared—a silvery-black fox carrying itself with an energy that made my skin crawl.  There was a darkness in its approach, a menace I could feel even from my distant vantage point.

What happened next was no playful interaction but a vicious attack.  The silvery-black fox turned on the mother with shocking aggression, and she fought back with desperate courage.  The battle was brief but brutal, ending with the attacker slinking away and the mother whimpering, shrinking into the tall grass to tend her wounds.

All the while, the kits continued playing.  Oblivious.  Innocent.  Protected by their very inability to comprehend what had just unfolded.

"Even my close friend, someone I trusted, one who shared my bread, has turned against me." (Psalm 41:9)

Sitting behind my camera, I felt that whimper echo in my own chest.  How many times had I experienced that same shock—the sudden attack from someone I trusted, the betrayal that came without warning?  In that moment, I identified completely with that brave mother fox, surprised by betrayal but still standing guard over what mattered most.

But here's what amazed me about foxes: they don't seem to hold grudges.

The next morning, I returned expecting tension, wariness, permanent rifts. Instead, I found the same peaceful interactions as before.  The silvery-black fox was back, engaging normally with the group.  It was as if the previous night's trauma had been absorbed and released, leaving no visible scar on the community's fabric.

This challenged everything in me.  My human nature wanted justice, wanted the silvery-black fox shunned, wanted consequences that matched the betrayal.  But watching these creatures choose restoration over resentment, I began to understand something profound about the freedom that comes with forgiveness.

Whatever the mother fox may have retained from that experience, she continued to allow the silvery-black fox to interact with her kits—a trust that spoke to something deeper than our human understanding of conflict resolution.  She had found a way to remain open while staying wise, to forgive without becoming foolish

"Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you." (Ephesians 4:32)

In that moment, watching the mother fox embody this radical grace, I glimpsed God's own heart reflected in His creation. What we often struggle to live out as humans—this divine call to forgive as we have been forgiven—was being demonstrated naturally in the wild. Perhaps this is how God intended us to live all along, with hearts that can absorb betrayal without becoming bitter, that can choose restoration over retaliation.

Sitting in that wildflower field for hours each day, I realized I was witnessing more than animal behavior.  I was seeing a masterclass in trust, provision, community, and grace.  These fox families lived with a simplicity that we humans have complicated beyond recognition.

They trusted their hidden places of safety.  They gathered what was needed each day without hoarding.  They invested in their young with patient dedication.  They built community while maintaining healthy boundaries.  And when betrayal came—as it inevitably does—they found ways to heal without harboring bitterness.

"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose." (Romans 8:28)

As my week on the island drew to a close, I found myself reluctant to leave these teachers.  The kits had grown visibly, their play becoming more sophisticated, their personalities more defined.  Soon they would venture beyond their hedge sanctuary, carrying with them everything their mother and community had invested in them—and the bone-deep knowledge that they were loved, protected, and equipped for whatever lay ahead.

"Start children off on the way they should go, and even when they are old they will not turn from it." (Proverbs 22:6)

Perhaps you're reading this from your own hidden place—a season where God has tucked you away behind protective barriers while He provides for your needs and prepares you for what's next.  Maybe you're wondering why provision requires such effort, why community relationships sometimes turn painful, why growth feels slow and safety seems temporary.

The fox kits remind us that our seasons of hiddenness are not delays—they're development.  Our experiences of betrayal and forgiveness are not detours—they're essential curriculum.  Our dependence on daily provision is not weakness—it's the very design that keeps us close to the heart of our Provider.

What hidden haven is God offering you today?  What community is He using to shape you?  What forgiveness might He be calling you to embrace—not for others' sake, but for your own freedom?

The foxes know something we often forget: we were made for trust, designed for community, equipped for resilience, and called to extend the same grace we've received.  In the hidden havens of our lives, we can play with the abandon of those fox kits—not because dangers don't exist, but because we know we are held, protected, and perfectly prepared for whatever adventures await beyond the hedge.

"The Lord your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves.  He will take great delight in you; in His love He will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing." (Zephaniah 3:17)

The boat rocked gently beneath me as we drifted through the pre-dawn stillness of Blue Cypress Lake. Can you picture it? That moment when the world holds its breath—not quite night, not yet day—when possibilities hang suspended in the air like the Spanish moss draping from ancient cypress branches. I had come seeking photographs, but found myself drawn into something deeper—a living parable unfolding before my eyes.

"Be still, and know that I am God." (Psalm 46)

The whispered Scripture seemed to ripple across the dark waters as our boat drifted silently forward. In that moment of stillness, our guide pointed toward a large collection of sticks nestled in the crown of a nearby cypress. Through my lens, I watched a mother osprey standing alert at the nest's edge, her head turning in constant vigilance as her nearly-grown chick impatiently stretched wings awaiting it’s father's return.

"That chick is getting big," I observed. "The parents must be bringing in a lot of fish from this lake."

"That's the remarkable thing," our guide explained. "These ospreys don't actually fish in Blue Cypress Lake at all."

I lowered my camera in surprise. "But they're flying fishermen. Why would they nest here if they don't fish here?"

"There are two theories," our guide explained. "Some believe it's because the water here is too dark—they can't see below the surface. Others think it might be a protection strategy—by hunting far from home, they don't draw predators to their vulnerable young."

These magnificent birds had chosen to build their homes in a place that couldn't directly sustain them. Every meal required a journey to another lake entirely—miles of flying, searching, hunting, and returning. Nothing about their most basic need was convenient or guaranteed. Yet there they were, thriving.

"My God will meet all your needs according to the riches of His glory in Christ Jesus." (Philippians 4:19)

How many times had I questioned God's provision simply because it didn't arrive in the package I expected or from the source I anticipated? How often had I limited His ability to provide by trying to dictate the how and where?

Just then, movement caught my eye—an osprey returning to its nest. As I focused my lens, the bird suddenly changed direction, turning directly toward me. Through my viewfinder, I found myself staring into its eyes. Golden, fierce, and possessed of a clarity I'd rarely encountered.

Those eyes. They weren't just seeing me; they were seeing through me.

"Nothing in all creation is hidden from God's sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of Him to whom we must give account." (Hebrews 4:13)

As I stood there feeling venerable and exposed the osprey banked away, continuing toward its nest, but something in me had shifted. What did this creature know that I didn't? What certainty lived behind those unflinching eyes?

The following day, my photography journey took me miles away to the ocean shore. As the early morning light painted the horizon, I found myself in a completely different environment—one where the rules of survival played out more visibly on the stage of clear coastal waters.

Here the competition is intense, coming in many shapes and sizes. Here you learn that not every effort is rewarded with success.

I watched an osprey hovering high above the water, its focus absolute before launching with astonishing speed toward the surface below. The impact sent water splashing skyward as it disappeared completely beneath the waves.

Seconds passed.

Then—eruption. With powerful wing beats, the osprey broke the surface, water streaming from its feathers, a struggling fish grasped firmly in its talons. The osprey had crossed between worlds and emerged victorious, carrying its provision.

In this triumphant moment, I could see that strength in action. Wings heavy with water, carrying additional weight, the osprey needed to gain altitude. Each powerful stroke required tremendous effort, yet there was no hesitation. No doubt. No fear that the burden would prove too much.

"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." (Philippians 4:13)

All of a sudden, I noticed something else—a pelican in hot pursuit, its massive wings working to intercept the smaller bird and steal its hard-earned catch. The osprey, despite its burden, executed a series of sharp turns, eventually outmaneuvering its pursuer. I nodded my head in approval as the words echoed in my mind...

"No weapon forged against you will prevail." (Isaiah 54:17)

As I watched this drama unfold, a question formed in my heart: What does this osprey know that I need to know? Not just intellectually, but with bone-deep certainty?

The ospreys of Blue Cypress Lake still whisper their wisdom to me in quiet moments of doubt. I think of how they build their homes in one place yet seek provision in another—a reminder that God doesn't always place what we need directly before us. Sometimes the journey itself is part of His design, stretching our wings and teaching us to trust.

I remember that decisive moment of the dive—no hesitation, no fear—just complete surrender to the purpose for which it was created. Faith, perhaps, looks something like this: launching ourselves fully into God's promises, breaking through surfaces, and trusting He'll bring us back up with what we need.

And when I face opposition after receiving a blessing—when the "pelicans" of life pursue what God has just provided—I recall how the osprey's struggle didn't diminish its victory. Even when perfectly aligned with God's purpose, our path won't be free from resistance. Protection doesn't mean absence of struggle; it means provision of strength for the journey ahead.

Those knowing eyes have become my touchstone. What I initially felt as piercing scrutiny, I now understand as something else entirely—the gaze of a creature living in complete alignment with its design. The osprey doesn't question whether fish will be available in distant waters. It doesn't hesitate before the plunge. It doesn't calculate odds of success against effort required. Those eyes hold the certainty of a creature that intimately knows its Creator's provision. Not blindly optimistic, but confidently expectant—a knowing that runs deeper than circumstance or convenience.

I still return to those knowing eyes when doubt creeps in. They remind me that just as the osprey was designed for its purpose—to build in safety, to journey for provision, to dive with certainty, and to rise again—so was I designed for mine.

"For we are God's handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do." (Ephesians 2:10)

Perhaps you're reading this while feeling the weight of your own daily journeys—traveling emotional or spiritual distances just to meet basic needs. Maybe you're diving deep into challenging waters, breaking through surfaces only to face those who would steal your hard-won peace.

The next time you face murky waters or long journeys to find what sustains you, remember the osprey. Remember that God's provision often wait beyond your comfortable shores—visible only to those willing to trust enough to make the journey and take the plunge.

What shores might God be calling you to leave? What depths might He be asking you to dive into? What wonders might be waiting for you beyond your familiar waters?

The morning mist hung low over the lake as I walked the empty path, my footsteps muffled by damp earth. That's when I spotted him—perched awkwardly on a weathered log extending from the shoreline, a solitary duck that instantly made me pause.

I'm ashamed to admit my first thought: How ugly. Its face was red and bumpy, almost deformed-looking, with none of the sleek appearance I associated with waterfowl. The duck remained fixed on its log, never venturing into the water, methodically preening its dull feathers in the colorless morning light.

And then, from somewhere deep within, came the question that stopped me cold: Have you ever felt like an ugly duck in a swan world? The question pierced me because I knew the answer. Yes. We all have those moments when we feel awkward, unnoticed, or less-than when surrounded by those who seem to navigate life with effortless grace. In those moments, I often forget God's promise He put into writing — of His constant presence and support:

"Even to your old age and gray hairs I am He who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you." Isaiah 46

As I stood watching, the duck continued a meticulous process of self-care—stretching its neck to reach difficult spots, carefully aligning each feather. What I had first perceived as ugliness revealed itself as profound functionality. This wasn't about appearance—it was about survival, stewardship, and quiet dignity. I was witnessing a lesson often overlooked:

"The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart." 1 Samuel 16

Standing there in the morning mist, I wondered what beautiful heart this seemingly plain duck might have. What valuable purpose did it serve in God's intricate design? How might I have misjudged its worth based on a glance?

Movement from around the bend caught my attention. A swan—brilliantly white even against the gray backdrop—glided into view with unmistakable confidence. Here was nature's celebrity, commanding attention without effort, beautiful by every conventional standard. The swan seemed aware of its effect, its long neck arched proudly as it approached.

In that quiet moment, a second question formed in my heart: Who defines true beauty? We live in a world that has very clear ideas about what constitutes beauty—in people, in nature, even in how faith should look. But standing between that "ugly" duck and elegant swan, I almost laughed out loud as I remembered words pinned long ago, words that were just as true today;

We now have this Light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves. 2 Corinthians 4

Perhaps the duck's plain exterior housed just as valuable a treasure as the swan's elegant form—a living reminder that our value comes not from our packaging but from the life within. I later discovered that what I had perceived as deformity was actually the distinctive appearance of a particular duck species. My ignorance had led me to misclassify natural design as defect. How often do we do the same with people, labeling differences as flaws simply because they don't match our limited expectations?

The duck continued its dedicated work, untroubled by comparison. There was profound wisdom in its focus—a lesson about finding purpose beyond appearance, about faithful stewardship of whatever gifts we've been given.

Looking at the two birds—one celebrated for its beauty, one often overlooked—I heard the echo of the Psalmist's wonder:

"For You [God] created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made." Psalm 139

Both birds, each have distinctive feature—even the duck's bumpy red face—represented intentional design by a Creator who doesn't make mistakes. Both birds fulfilled their purpose exactly as they were made to do.

I've returned to that lake many mornings since. The swan makes regular appearances, continuing its majestic patrols. But that particular duck—the one that sparked such reflection—I've never seen again. Sometimes I wonder if God arranged that singular encounter just for me, just for that lesson.

Perhaps you're reading this and remembering times you've felt like that duck—overlooked or judged by standards that don't account for your unique purpose. Maybe you've spent years trying to be a swan when God designed you with the resilience and functionality of an entirely different kind of beauty. On those days when you feel most inadequate, most "ugly duck-ish," remember the truth of God’s words:

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness." 2 Corinthians 12

Our perceived weaknesses—the very things that make us feel different or inadequate—often become the channels through which God's strength flows most powerfully.

That morning by the lake taught me that God's most profound messages often come through unassuming messengers. That duck, with its unconventional appearance but essential purpose, reminded me that God's definition of beauty looks nothing like our human standards.

The question remains with me: "Who defines true beauty?" Is it fashion magazines, social media, or popular opinion? Or is it the Creator who intentionally designs diversity into every aspect of His world—who sees value and purpose in both the spectacular swan and the distinctive duck?

I still ask myself sometimes: "Have you ever felt like an ugly duck in a swan world?" But now, instead of shame, I feel a gentle reminder that God's most faithful servants aren't always the showiest birds on the lake. Sometimes they're the ones quietly living out their God-given design, finding purpose beyond appearance. The Psalmist understood this divine preference:

"For the Lord takes delight in His people; He crowns the humble with victory." Psalm 149

Perhaps true beauty is found not in commanding attention, but in the quiet dignity of living out one's purpose, humbly and faithfully, under the delighted gaze of a loving Creator. And in His eyes—the only eyes that ultimately matter—both the swan and the duck are beautiful beyond measure.

It happened in a misty rainforest in Hawaii. Dawn was just breaking, and I stood still amid emerald vegetation dripping with dew. That's when I heard it—a pure, unwavering song cutting through the gentle rainfall. Following the sound, I spotted a tiny bird perched on a rain-slicked branch, its throat vibrating with melody despite the shower. Camera in hand, I captured the moment, and something clicked within me deeper than the sound of my shutter.

In that moment, I understood something profound about praise.

Each morning across the world, as the first rays of sunlight pierce through the morning mist, God's creation awakens to a magnificent chorus. The birds, those divinely crafted musicians of the air, begin their daily symphony without hesitation or self-consciousness. They don't question their voices or compare their songs to others. They simply sing.

"Sing a new song to the Lord! Let the whole earth sing to the Lord!" — Psalm 96

Each species contributes its unique voice to this natural orchestra: the melodious warble of the thrush, the cheerful trill of the chickadee, the robust song of the cardinal, and even the simple caw of the crow. What's equally remarkable is how each bird's appearance matches the distinctiveness of its song. The cardinal's brilliant red plumage blazes like a living flame, while the bluebird wears the very color of heaven itself. The humble sparrow sports its dignified brown coat, and the goldfinch gleams like a shaft of sunshine. Each bird is clothed in colors and patterns as unique as its voice, creating a visual feast alongside the auditory one.

For years, I had longed to have a beautiful singing voice—to join the church choir or lead worship with song. But my voice wasn't made for that kind of music. Standing there in that Hawaiian rainforest, watching that persistent little singer, I finally understood that I had been defining praise too narrowly.

Through my camera lens, I had already found my voice in creation's chorus. Each time I lift my camera, I'm participating in an act of praise, capturing and sharing these divine moments—freezing in time the arc of a swallow's flight, the intensity of an owl's gaze, or the delicate detail of a hummingbird's wings. My photography becomes my song of praise, transforming fleeting moments of beauty into lasting testimonies of God's creative power.

"For the gifts and the calling of God are without regret." — Romans 11:29

Back home, as I was standing in the early morning light by the still water’s edge of the bay, I found myself mirroring the patience of the Great Blue Heron in the shallows. We're both watching, waiting, ready to capture what God provides—the heron with its sharp beak, and I with my camera's shutter. In these quiet moments of observation, I'm learning to participate in the divine rhythm of creation in my own unique way.

The Scripture tells us to "make a joyful noise unto the Lord" (Psalm 100). Through my lens, I've discovered that while I may not have the voice of a songbird, I can still contribute to creation's symphony. Some may sing with their voices, but I sing with my camera, capturing the visual music of God's world. Each new bird I photograph becomes another note in my growing song of praise, and I've found that the click of my shutter can be its own form of joyful noise.

In this realization, I've freed myself from the narrow definition of what praise can be. Each time I capture the iridescent flash of a hummingbird's throat, document the graceful soar of an eagle, or share the quiet dignity of a dove, I'm participating in the grand chorus. Every photograph I take becomes another harmonizer in the choir, another way to celebrate the Creator's artistry.

"We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us." — Romans 12:6

And I'm not alone in this diverse chorus. Around me, others join in with their own unique gifts: painters with their brushes, writers with their words, dancers with their movements, teachers with their lessons, gardeners with their nurturing hands, and singers with their voices. Together, we create a harmony that's beautiful precisely because of its variety.

Perhaps you too have a gift waiting to be recognized as your own form of joyful noise. What speaks to your heart when you encounter beauty? What moves you to pause, to notice, to wonder?

Ask yourself: What aspect of creation fills me with wonder? What skills has the Creator placed in my hands? How might I use these to honor the artistry I see around me?

No matter where we find ourselves, God has surrounded us with His symphony to start each new day. The invitation echoes in every sunrise, in every birdsong, in every gentle breeze: join the chorus in whatever way you can.

The symphony of creation continues whether we participate or not. But when we do—when we offer our unique gifts in praise—we experience the joy of knowing our part matters. Through my photographs, I join with the birds in their unending praise, adding my own essential note to their timeless song.

And in doing so, I've discovered something the birds knew all along: the joy isn't in having the perfect voice, but in lifting the one you've been given.

The chorus is incomplete without your voice—whatever form it takes.

Let everything that has breath praise the Lord. Praise the Lord! Psalm 150

In the depths of Maui's waters swims one of God's most magnificent creatures - the humpback whale.  These gentle giants, weighing up to forty tons and reaching lengths of fifty feet (picture seven African elephants in a large school bus), exhibits an artistry that points to the divine creativity of their Creator.  Each year many of these extraordinary creatures embark on one of the longest migrations of any mammal - traveling thousands of miles from feeding grounds to breeding waters.  Like these majestic beings, I too have journeyed to Maui's waters, where I now find myself in a boat, watching in awe as they traverse the deep.  Their trek mirrors my own walk of faith, as they press forward through vast ocean expanses, guided by an unseen hand toward distant shores.

"Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He [God] will make your paths straight." Proverbs 3

Out here on Maui's waters, each day brings a fresh reminder of God's intricate design and tender care.  No matter how many times I venture out, that mix of anticipation and wonder never fades.  Through my countless voyages, I've learned that the waiting itself is sacred - those quiet moments when the ocean seems to hold its breath, reminding me that God's timing is always perfect, even when I can't see what's coming.  Then, without warning, a massive whale suddenly appears from the depths, competing with raw power and grace, unveiling God's imagination in every breach, tail throw and dive.  Their passionate display reminds me of how God calls me to live with purpose, holding nothing back in pursuit of what matters most today.

"Ask the animals, and they will teach you... let the fish in the sea inform you." - Job 12

As I watch these magnificent creatures disappear beneath the water’s surface, a question echoes in my heart: “am I truly living with purpose, or am I holding back?”  The answer appeared in an unexpected detail - when I noticed a whale's fluke encrusted with tiny parasites known as whale lice.  Just as these lice silently attach themselves to these majestic creatures, I too can unknowingly accumulate burdens that cling to my life.  Like these tiny parasites that feed on the whale's flesh, negative attitudes and unresolved hurts can gradually erode our joy and purpose.  While a whale may carry these hitchhikers across vast oceans, I began to wonder about my own "parasites" - those things I might be carrying without even realizing their weight.  Is there a bitter root from an old wound that I've gotten so used to carrying that it feels normal now?  Has pride attached itself so gradually that I've stopped noticing its presence?  These spiritual lice may seem small and harmless at first, but over time they can create vulnerable spots in our hearts, much like the whale lice tend to congregate in the whale's wounds and creases.

However, unlike whales who have limited ability to rid themselves of these parasites, you and I have access to something greater - God's grace, which can both reveal these burdens and give us the strength to release them.  Sometimes it takes a quiet moment on the ocean, watching these magnificent creatures, to realize what burdens I might be carrying and to recognize that I don't have to carry them any longer.

Yet God's lessons through these majestic creatures don't end there.  As I continue to watch the ocean unfold its stories, I witnessed another face of divine love through the mother whales.  Here in Maui's nurturing waters, a beautiful dance of devotion plays out beneath the surface.  A baby calf is never allowed to stray from the safety of its mother's massive pectoral fins - a living picture of God's protective embrace.  These mothers embody sacrificial love in its purest form, fasting entirely during their Hawaiian sojourn while their calves drink in life - 50 to 100 pounds of rich milk every hour.  The mother's own body surrenders up to 100 pounds daily to nourish her young one, mirroring how God pours out abundant provision in our seasons of growth and vulnerability.

Among the most touching sights I've witnessed is that of a baby whale resting on its mother's rostrum (head), creating a foundation of a living cathedral rising from the depths.  Even as her spirited calf practices its strength through endless tail slaps - reminiscent of a toddler's joyful exploration of movement - this mom remains steadfast, her patience as enormous as the ocean itself.  Hour after hour, she guides her little one through what I've come to think of as "whale calisthenics" - a series of breaches, dives, and precise maneuvers.  Each repetition building the strength and skill her calf will need for the challenging journey back home.  In these intimate moments between mother and calf, I see a reflection of how God patiently trains me, using life's challenges to build my spiritual muscles and deepen my trust for the greater journeys He has planned for me.  Through deep waters and sun-dappled surfaces, God remains as constant as the ocean currents. When I’m weary, He provides rest as sure as a mother whale lifting her calf to breathe.  When I need strength, He trains me as purposefully as those maternal whale exercise their young.  And when it's time to venture into deeper waters, He's there - teaching, guiding, and supporting me through each new breach and dive.

"When you pass through the waters, I [God] will be with you.” Isaiah 43

The vastness of the Pacific ocean that these whales traverse might seem overwhelming, just as our own life journeys can feel daunting.  But these magnificent creatures don't swim by sight - they trust ancient songs and God’s inner guidance to lead them to their true destination.  Their journey testifies to God's faithful design, their patient nurturing reflects His tender care, and their mighty leaps remind us that with His strength, we too can rise above the surface of our circumstances into something beautiful and unexpected.  These gentle giants of the sea invite us to trust, to persist, and to journey forward with purpose - knowing that every deep dive and every surface breath is held in the hands of the One who set the boundaries of the seas and fills them with such wonders as these.

"In His hand are the depths of the earth, and the mountain peaks belong to Him.  The sea is His, for He [God] made it, and His hands formed the dry land.” Psalm 95