Write about now
So you're a photographer.
And I'm hiring you to take my wedding photos.
You spend an awful lot of time at the wedding, however, enjoying the Hors d'oeuvres, chatting with the few people you know, and dancing to every song that ever came out of the 80's.
The wedding is over.
You haven't taken more than a handful of pictures. And I ask about them. You won't answer calls. You don't answer the door.
Finally, years later, I finally find you downtown. At that coffee shop with the excellent scones, and that tea that reminds me of the East Coast, and we sit down and talk.
And you are so afraid that I will yell and scream at you. And yell at you about how you've ruined my life. And I need my money back. And why would I ever trust you?
But that isn't what I say.
I say: You are a photographer. You went to school for this. I remember how you used to follow around birds. And line them up just right with the rugged hills and greenery. How you would find the shot of the sunset that I would never have worked hard enough to get. How you could make people smile like their birthday depended on it. You made them want to smile, their faces, almost knowing that this photograph would be held on to, and passed through fingers for years, until ends curled up, and they yellow with time. You were made for this. You are this.
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I know that God looks at me like this.
That he doesn't look at me at first and see behavior. But he sees me. And He has a knowledge of what I enjoy, and that somewhere mixed into that enjoyment is what I was created to do. And he looks me in the eye, and asks: why aren't you doing that?
And I'm hiring you to take my wedding photos.
You spend an awful lot of time at the wedding, however, enjoying the Hors d'oeuvres, chatting with the few people you know, and dancing to every song that ever came out of the 80's.
The wedding is over.
You haven't taken more than a handful of pictures. And I ask about them. You won't answer calls. You don't answer the door.
Finally, years later, I finally find you downtown. At that coffee shop with the excellent scones, and that tea that reminds me of the East Coast, and we sit down and talk.
And you are so afraid that I will yell and scream at you. And yell at you about how you've ruined my life. And I need my money back. And why would I ever trust you?
But that isn't what I say.
I say: You are a photographer. You went to school for this. I remember how you used to follow around birds. And line them up just right with the rugged hills and greenery. How you would find the shot of the sunset that I would never have worked hard enough to get. How you could make people smile like their birthday depended on it. You made them want to smile, their faces, almost knowing that this photograph would be held on to, and passed through fingers for years, until ends curled up, and they yellow with time. You were made for this. You are this.
-------------
I know that God looks at me like this.
That he doesn't look at me at first and see behavior. But he sees me. And He has a knowledge of what I enjoy, and that somewhere mixed into that enjoyment is what I was created to do. And he looks me in the eye, and asks: why aren't you doing that?
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