Take My Hand
My family is giving me bemused looks when I show them another sunrise or sunset photo. Probably wondering if I’m OK. I have of course been pondering this obsession while I wait for the winter sun to scale the opposite side of the hills and finally to blind me with its light. The folks in the houses behind me have their shades drawn against this million dollar view. I ponder that too.
The images captured don’t do it justice. They merely record that something amazing has happened, but they don’t capture the mixed emotions of my heart. The joy. The grief. The yearning for everything to be made new. Even for this moment to stand still. Much like a wedding photographer might try to capture a glimpse of a couple’s love on their wedding, I know the futility of it. How could the camera capture my mind and heart when my bride appeared, before stepping down the aisle, and at once I was both blinded by her brilliance and confounded that she should give herself to me. Both wanting to shout for joy and being struck dumb at the same time. No less than if the sun had stooped down from the sky and folded her hand into mine.
