11 Reflections on Photography, Life and, Faith

( You can read my introduction here) A must read to understand my “reflections.”

What follows took 50 years to experience but only a short time to write. I hope you will be encouraged to find your own path, walk the hills and valleys, discover beauty, and write your own story.

1. Look Beyond What Is Ordinary

“The ordinary is rarely ordinary when we take the time to truly see it.”

Most of us live surrounded by ordinary things. An ordinary house. An ordinary street. An ordinary backyard. An ordinary bird perched on an ordinary branch. But perhaps there is no such thing as an ordinary moment. Perhaps there are only moments we haven’t learned to see.

I’ve spent much of my photographic life looking for something extra in things that most people would consider ordinary. I don’t always have to travel somewhere exotic to find it. Sometimes I only have to walk outside.

A bird I’ve seen a hundred times can suddenly catch the morning light differently. A familiar flower can become extraordinary when a butterfly lands upon it. A patch of zinnias can become a stage for a goldfinch.

The difference isn’t always in the subject.

Sometimes the difference is in the observer. Read that again.

Photography has taught me that beauty isn’t necessarily rare. We simply become accustomed to it.

Perhaps one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves is the willingness to look again at something we’ve stopped noticing.

Because when we slow down long enough to really see, ordinary has a way of becoming extraordinary.

2. A Photograph Should Make You Wonder

“A good photograph captures the eye; a great photograph captures the imagination.”

I’ve taken plenty of photographs that were technically good.
The bird was sharp. The exposure was right. The composition worked.
But technical excellence isn’t necessarily what makes a photograph memorable.
Some images stay with us because they cause us to wonder.

Where was this bird going?
What happened just before the shutter clicked?
What will happen next?
How did the light fall so perfectly across its feathers?

And sometimes the questions go beyond the photograph.
Why is there such beauty in the world?
Why does something so small and seemingly insignificant matter?
Who designed all of this?

That is when a photograph becomes more than an image.
It becomes an invitation.
An invitation to pause.
An invitation to think.
An invitation to wonder.

I’ve come to believe that a great photograph doesn’t necessarily answer a question.

It creates one.

And perhaps that is part of photography’s greatest power: it can open our eyes to something our minds have never considered before.

3. Seeing Requires Slowing Down

“You cannot truly see what you are unwilling to stop for.”

Bird photography has taught me something that I wasn’t expecting to learn: Patience is part of seeing.

A bird doesn’t care whether I’m ready.

It doesn’t wait for the perfect light. It doesn’t pose because I have an expensive camera. It doesn’t repeat the moment because I missed the shot.

So I wait.
Sometimes for minutes.
Sometimes much longer.
And while I’m waiting, something happens.

I begin to notice things I would otherwise have missed.

The breeze moving through the grass.
A distant bird call.
The changing quality of light.
The movement of leaves.
The arrival of a butterfly.

Eventually, I realize that I’m no longer simply waiting for the bird. I’m experiencing the world around me. Our lives can be much the same. We move so quickly that we often see without noticing.

We hear without listening. We pass through moments without experiencing them.

Perhaps we need fewer moments of hurry and more moments of stillness.

Because sometimes the thing we are looking for appears only after we become quiet enough to see it.

4. Beauty Is Often Hiding in Plain Sight

“Beauty doesn’t always announce itself; sometimes it waits to be noticed.”

Beauty doesn’t always arrive dramatically. Sometimes it is sitting quietly on a fence post.

Sometimes it has feathers. Sometimes it has six legs and wings. Sometimes it is a worn butterfly struggling through the garden. Sometimes it is an old tree that has stood quietly through generations of seasons.

We often associate beauty with perfection. But nature has taught me otherwise.

A bird with a missing feather can still be beautiful. A butterfly with battered wings can still be remarkable. A flower beginning to fade can still possess extraordinary character.

Perhaps beauty isn’t dependent upon perfection.

Perhaps beauty has more to do with being fully what we were created to be.

Photography has given me the privilege of looking closely at things I might otherwise overlook.

And the closer I look, the more I realize how much beauty surrounds us.

Maybe beauty isn’t scarce. Maybe our attention is.

5. Don’t Chase Perfection; Pursue Meaning

“A technically perfect photograph can impress us; a meaningful photograph can change us.”

Photography encourages us to chase perfection.

The sharpest image.
The perfect exposure.
The cleanest background.
The perfect composition.

There is nothing wrong with pursuing excellence. I certainly do. But I’ve learned that perfection alone doesn’t guarantee meaning.

A photograph can be technically flawless and emotionally empty.

Another photograph can have an imperfect background, imperfect light, or an imperfect moment – and still tell a story that stays with us.

That’s because photography is more than aesthetics.

There is another kind of value in an image.

Story.

What was happening?
Why was I there?
What did I feel?
What did I see that made me press the shutter?
What do I hope someone else will see?

Those questions matter because people connect with stories.

Perhaps the same is true of life.

We can spend so much time trying to make our lives look perfect that we forget to make them meaningful.

Maybe the better question isn’t, “Is this perfect?”

Maybe it is:

“Does this matter?”

6. Every Image Has a Story

“A photograph freezes a moment, but a story gives it life.”

Every photograph begins with a moment. But the moment is rarely the whole story. A bird sitting on a branch may look peaceful.

But perhaps it has just completed a thousand-mile migration.
Perhaps it is searching for food for its young.
Perhaps it is preparing to leave for another season.
Perhaps it has survived a storm.

We see one frame. The bird lives an entire story.

I’ve come to believe that the photographer’s job isn’t simply to capture what is visible. It is to look for what might be unseen.

What story is taking place just outside the frame?
What happened before this moment?
What will happen afterward?

That is what gives an image depth. The photograph becomes more than a record of where the bird was. It becomes a doorway into what the bird’s life might mean. And perhaps that is true of people, too.

We often see only one frame of someone’s life. We see the smile, but not the struggle. We see the accomplishment, but not the years of failure. We see the finished photograph, but not the thousands of missed shots.

Every person has a story.

Every life has something happening beyond the frame.

We would do well to remember that before judging what we see.

7. What Challenges Us Can Also Transform Us

“The obstacle may change the path, but it doesn’t have to end the journey.”

Some journeys don’t unfold the way we planned. Mine certainly didn’t.

I spent years as a landscape photographer before making an unexpected transition into bird photography during the COVID pandemic.

I began again at sixty-three.

That meant learning a demanding new discipline while carrying heavy equipment, learning new technology, developing new techniques, and confronting challenges that weren’t always visible to those looking at the finished photographs.

But something important happened. The obstacles didn’t disappear.

I changed.

I became more persistent.
More patient (somewhat).
More willing to fail.
More willing to begin again.

That’s one of the lessons I value most from photography. Sometimes the thing we think is standing in our way becomes part of the story we eventually tell.

The difficult road may teach us something the easy road never could.

We don’t always get to choose our obstacles. But we can choose what we do with them. A limitation can become an excuse. Or it can become a reason to discover another way forward.

The obstacle may change the path. But it doesn’t have to determine the destination.

8. Sometimes You Have to Begin Again

“A second beginning can lead to a first discovery.”

We tend to think of beginnings as something that belongs to the young.

A new career.
A new skill.
A new adventure.

But life doesn’t stop offering new beginnings simply because we get older.

Sometimes the second chapter is where we discover something we didn’t know was missing from the first.

I didn’t expect bird photography to become such an important part of my life.

But stepping away from landscapes and turning toward birds opened an entirely new world.

It wasn’t simply a change in subject matter.
It changed the way I looked.
It changed what I noticed.
It changed what I wanted my photography to say.

And it reminded me that reinvention isn’t necessarily a sign that we made a mistake before. Sometimes it means we’ve grown enough to see something we couldn’t see earlier.

There is courage in beginning again.

It means accepting that we won’t be very good at first.
It means being willing to look foolish.
It means being willing to learn.

But perhaps the greatest discoveries in life are waiting on the other side of our willingness to start over.

A second flight isn’t necessarily a continuation of the first.

Sometimes it is the flight that finally reveals where we were meant to go.

9. Creation Can Become a Window to the Creator

“When we stop merely looking at creation and begin considering it, we may glimpse the Creator.”

There are moments in nature when photography becomes something more than photography.

I look through the lens at a bird and find myself wondering how such a creature came to be.

The intricate feathers.
The perfectly formed wings.
The catchlight in the eye.
The ability to navigate.
The instinct to migrate.

The seemingly effortless beauty of something that weighs only ounces.

And I find myself thinking about the words of Scripture:

“The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.”

I don’t photograph birds because I think every photograph needs a religious message. I photograph them because I believe creation itself can point beyond creation.

A bird can simply be a bird. And yet, when I truly consider it, I find myself asking bigger questions.

Why is there beauty?
Why is there order?
Why does creation stir something inside us?

Perhaps photography doesn’t give me all the answers. But it does something else. It makes me stop long enough to ask the questions. And sometimes I think that is where faith begins.

Not with having every answer.

But with being willing to wonder.

10. Wonder Is a Form of Gratitude

“The more we notice, the more we have to be thankful for.”

Perhaps this is where all the other lessons eventually lead.

We look.
We slow down.
We notice.
We wonder.
And then we become grateful.

The bird was always there.
The flower was always there.
The sunrise was always there.
The butterfly was always there.

What changed?

We finally noticed.

Photography has made me more aware of how much beauty surrounds us every day. And awareness has a way of producing gratitude.

When we notice the small things, we begin to appreciate the big things differently.

A bird becomes more than a bird.
A morning becomes more than another morning.
A new day becomes a gift.

And eventually, gratitude asks another question: Who should I thank?

For me, that question leads back to God.

The camera may help me capture the moment, but it cannot create the beauty.

I can adjust the exposure.
I can choose the composition.
I can press the shutter.

But I cannot make the bird’s feathers grow.

I cannot command the sunrise.
I cannot create the mystery.
I can only witness it.

And perhaps that is what photography has ultimately taught me:

I am not the creator of the beauty I photograph. I am its witness.

And being a witness is a privilege.

So I will keep looking.
I will keep waiting.
I will keep wondering.

And I will keep giving thanks for the extraordinary things hiding inside ordinary days.

11. We Don’t Have to See the Whole Picture to Understand the Whole Story

When I captured this photograph, the butterfly wasn’t completely visible.

Flowers and leaves obscured parts of its body. The foreground competed for my attention. I couldn’t see everything.

Yet somehow, I understood the picture.

I knew there was a butterfly resting among the flowers. I could see its wings, its body, its delicate antennae and enough of its surroundings to understand what was happening.

And then I began to think about how much this resembles life.

We often want to see the whole picture before we are willing to believe we understand the story.

We want all the answers.
We want to know what happened before.
We want to know what will happen next.
We want every piece to fit neatly into place.

But life rarely gives us that luxury. Sometimes we are given only fragments.

A conversation.
A photograph.
A single moment.
A difficult circumstance or trial.
A glimpse of someone’s life.

And yet, those fragments can tell us more than we realize.

The butterfly didn’t need to be completely visible for me to appreciate its beauty. In fact, the things I couldn’t see made me look more carefully at what I could.

Perhaps there is a lesson in that.

What is hidden doesn’t necessarily prevent us from understanding what is revealed.

There is also a spiritual dimension to this.

We see only a portion of our lives. God sees the whole.
We see the moment. He sees the story.
We see the obstacle. He sees the path beyond it.
We see the unanswered question. He sees the answer.

Perhaps faith is partly learning to be comfortable with an incomplete picture.

Not because the missing pieces don’t matter, but because we can trust that the story is larger than the portion we can see.

The butterfly reminded me of something I often forget: We don’t need to see everything to appreciate something.

Sometimes a glimpse is enough.

Sometimes the hidden parts make what is visible even more beautiful.

And sometimes, when we stop demanding the whole picture, we finally begin to understand the story.

The composition actually strengthens the principle. The butterfly isn’t presented as a conventional, fully revealed nature portrait. Instead, the surrounding flowers partially conceal it.

That creates a fascinating tension: We see enough to know what we’re seeing, but not enough to know everything about it.

That’s exactly what happens in life.

“We don’t have to see the whole picture to understand the whole story” doesn’t mean we should assume we know everything. It means we can recognize meaning even when our knowledge is incomplete.

Therefore, after 50 years of “seeing” through a camera lens I’ve boiled it down to these simple steps.

Look → Slow down → Notice → Wonder → Find meaning → See the story → Persevere → Begin again → See the Creator → Give thanks → Trust what we cannot see.