Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Tuesday, 17 July 2012
Sunday, 4 March 2012
Under Red Light
The beauty of a photograph is not always knowing how it will turn out.
Which shadows you will see, which lights patches will illuminate the page.
Even with a digital camera, where I can adjust, change settings, increase colour and light, I still don't know exactly what will happen when I press the shutter. Sometimes I like it, sometimes I don't.
I'd love to do real, old school dark room photography. To take off with a camera with limited exposures, capture the moment and then watch quietly, under red light, in anticipation of the picture.
One of my favourite photographs is one I found in an old box of photography kit from my uncle. It's a much younger photograph of my grandparents, as the shutter went off they were both laughing, my granny tilting back her head & enjoying the moment. It's a rare photograph of my grandpa too - not that he doesn't ever smile, but to see him laughing like that is not something that often happens. In some ways this is not a good photograph, my granny's eyes are shut, my grandpa was scratching his face. If you were looking for a studio-perfect family portrait, this isn't it. But it is so much better. And nobody could have known how beautifully it would have turned out unless they had taken the negative into the dark room and begun the laborious process of development.
I often find that my favourite photographs seem like the mistakes. The blurry ones, the wonky ones, that one that's slightly out of focus, or the composition was wrong and I got a bit of extra scenery. Or the camera settings were wrong, the colour was too high, not high enough...
Day to day it's so easy to get caught up in the times when I make mistakes, to berate myself for doing one thing, or not doing it. I get cross when I forget something, frustrated when I try to explain myself and noone understands, sad when things just don't turn out right. I despair when I can't pray, I lose hope when there's noone to turn to. I know that I should trust in my Saviour, but some days, it just seems too bleak, too impossible. Much like developing a photograph, I don't know how this living will turn out. I start to think, is it even worth the hassle? What's the point? Why am I doing this?
But who would go to the trouble of taking a photograph, to then ignore the film and refuse to develop it? The process might be long, it might be dark, but it is the end result that is worth it. Under red light the photo becomes clear, the picture is perfect. Under red blood, we become clear, we become perfect - redeemed in his sight. In photography, even the mistakes can be beautiful. In life, God works all things for the good of those who trust him. Even the bad, messy, black bits. He is the ultimate photographer, the one who will labour intensely for hours to develop a beautiful, beautiful image. He will not leave the process halfway through, or discard a page because it might not turn out right. He lovingly restores all things. I can be confident that my photograph, his plan for me, will turn out alright - more than alright - perfect.
Which shadows you will see, which lights patches will illuminate the page.
Even with a digital camera, where I can adjust, change settings, increase colour and light, I still don't know exactly what will happen when I press the shutter. Sometimes I like it, sometimes I don't.
I'd love to do real, old school dark room photography. To take off with a camera with limited exposures, capture the moment and then watch quietly, under red light, in anticipation of the picture.
One of my favourite photographs is one I found in an old box of photography kit from my uncle. It's a much younger photograph of my grandparents, as the shutter went off they were both laughing, my granny tilting back her head & enjoying the moment. It's a rare photograph of my grandpa too - not that he doesn't ever smile, but to see him laughing like that is not something that often happens. In some ways this is not a good photograph, my granny's eyes are shut, my grandpa was scratching his face. If you were looking for a studio-perfect family portrait, this isn't it. But it is so much better. And nobody could have known how beautifully it would have turned out unless they had taken the negative into the dark room and begun the laborious process of development.
I often find that my favourite photographs seem like the mistakes. The blurry ones, the wonky ones, that one that's slightly out of focus, or the composition was wrong and I got a bit of extra scenery. Or the camera settings were wrong, the colour was too high, not high enough...
Day to day it's so easy to get caught up in the times when I make mistakes, to berate myself for doing one thing, or not doing it. I get cross when I forget something, frustrated when I try to explain myself and noone understands, sad when things just don't turn out right. I despair when I can't pray, I lose hope when there's noone to turn to. I know that I should trust in my Saviour, but some days, it just seems too bleak, too impossible. Much like developing a photograph, I don't know how this living will turn out. I start to think, is it even worth the hassle? What's the point? Why am I doing this?
But who would go to the trouble of taking a photograph, to then ignore the film and refuse to develop it? The process might be long, it might be dark, but it is the end result that is worth it. Under red light the photo becomes clear, the picture is perfect. Under red blood, we become clear, we become perfect - redeemed in his sight. In photography, even the mistakes can be beautiful. In life, God works all things for the good of those who trust him. Even the bad, messy, black bits. He is the ultimate photographer, the one who will labour intensely for hours to develop a beautiful, beautiful image. He will not leave the process halfway through, or discard a page because it might not turn out right. He lovingly restores all things. I can be confident that my photograph, his plan for me, will turn out alright - more than alright - perfect.
Friday, 6 January 2012
The unnaturalness of Death
Why do we grieve? There is some part of us, some part that still remembers what life was like before death... How life was formed back in the garden, and the perfectness of that first relationship.
Death is not natural, even Jesus wept at the grave of his friend.
Even though I am not yet grieving, and even though I know the pain that will come, I cannot help but wonder at a God who shared with us his pain at the loss of what was perfect.
The process of mourning & grieving is not one I shall look forward to, but I rejoice that my God has gone there before me, and will go with me through it. When I compare the pain of death to the beauty of the cross, it seems in some way that grief is a reminder of what is to come: full and complete restoration to a perfect relationship with my saviour.
I do not want to belittle loss, or hope that I will be able to ignore the pain, but I want to know I am not alone in this, and that life is not without purpose - he holds us in the palms of his hands...
Death is not natural, even Jesus wept at the grave of his friend.
Even though I am not yet grieving, and even though I know the pain that will come, I cannot help but wonder at a God who shared with us his pain at the loss of what was perfect.
The process of mourning & grieving is not one I shall look forward to, but I rejoice that my God has gone there before me, and will go with me through it. When I compare the pain of death to the beauty of the cross, it seems in some way that grief is a reminder of what is to come: full and complete restoration to a perfect relationship with my saviour.
I do not want to belittle loss, or hope that I will be able to ignore the pain, but I want to know I am not alone in this, and that life is not without purpose - he holds us in the palms of his hands...
Monday, 5 December 2011
All I need...
"This jar of clay in all its weakness
Somehow inside dwells your fullness
Even though I'm not yet flawless,
You are forming me"
"Valleys come and tears aren't dried yet and there are things I don't yet see
But I'll rejoice in spite of hardship
You'll watch over me"
With my back to the outside wall, I can feel its coldness right through my body, chilling.
With my eyes facing forward, I can see the light beside me, comforting.
To remember where my hope is hid does not make the wall any warmer, but to lift my eyes and see the heavenly sight that awaits gives me strength.
"Lift your eyes and look to the heavens:
Who created all these?
He who brings out the starry host one by one,
and calls them by name.
Because of his great power and mighty strength,
not one of them is missing..."
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