The Beauty of the Season

Last week, as I sat in church, I had a revelation.
What better place for that?

I'll admit that, as I sat, my mind wandered back to the Saturday night just before when I had sat in the living room of some dear friends, gaping at their Christmas tree as it slowly came together. I tied silver glittered ribbon to painted glass orbs and handed them off to find their way onto the artificial branches. The white lights set those orbs afire as they spun slowly, mindlessly, gently back and forth before coming to rest in the soft light.
I was so entranced with the beauty of it, I was momentarily afraid to speak for fear of spoiling the beauty.

I love white lights, and colored glass, and little stars, and white-glitter snowflakes, and garlands, and candles, and carols, and snow, and bundled people, mittens, scarves, hats, coats... I love it all so much sometimes I think my heart will burst...

Yet, while sitting in church, thinking back on the tree, I suddenly feel a bit guilty... that stuff is not what Christmas is about. Christmas is about the Savior, about His birth, about His Atonement, death, and resurrection. It is about His love, and God's love and what they mean for me in my life...

And then I hear Keats in my head saying "Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty" and I think: I love those beautiful things because of the Truth that they represent. If Beauty is a sort of abstract Truth-- something you can't quite put your finger on, but can sense nonetheless-- then the lights, the garlands, the snow, the music, the glitter-- by their very nature all mean: He loves you, He wants you to be happy, He will help you to be happy, fear not, love your neighbor, love your family, rise above who you are now to become who you want to be.... and do all of this because over 2000 years ago, a beautiful woman gave birth to the beautiful son of a beautiful God who loved you enough to give up everything for you-- and I can't think of any Truth more beautiful than that.

Merry Christmas, my friends.

Lightning Up

So far, these posts have all been quite heavy. I'm not apologizing, I am just switching gears to talk about something different.
Something simple, I guess.
and semi-coherent.

There are beautiful things.
Moments are things, and sometimes there are moments that are beautiful.
"Most moments are beautiful when looked at with the right lens"- Hollywood

If I were a photographer:
I would photograph a story: little words, and a lot of message. Something that people would rack their brain over for hours trying to decipher, coming up with something completely different, and probably better, than my interpretation. Then I would entitle it,

"That Was Kind of a Beautiful Moment".

It would probably be about a shortage of powdered sugar, being resourceful, and culinary failure.

Or a bowl of pasta, a red towel, and a new friend.

Or perhaps three girls in a car with the window rolled down- dry summer lightning.

Or the remembrance of lightning and thunder; something like snow in July within the first moments of waking up- that line between the truly remembered and the imagined.

Then I would subtitled it, "My Week in Abstract Black and White Photographs", set it aside for future generations, and hope that the feeling of anxiety--looking forward, looking back would somehow penetrate through the paper.
That and some abstract laughter.
There really was lightning last night
and I hear thunder over the roof of this building
right now.