A Picture Tells a Story: Read our July Writing Challenge winners
Wow! Our challenge to write a personal reflection based on a photograph attracted a lot of attention, and we received many wonderful submissions.
We typically select three top winners each month, but this time we've selected the top three and an additional two honorable mentions PLUS we're sharing all of the best submissions in a printable PDF which will be available next week.
The challenge?
"Write a personal reflection (maximum of 1000 words) based on a photograph. It can be any type of photograph, of any event or place or person or experience, and can be from any time period of your life. But it must help you reflect on something meaningful to you. And be sure to include the photograph to go alongside your story."
Congratulations to our top winners in the challenge:
1st place: Vicki Moats
2nd place: Suzanne D. Nichols
3rd place: Amber Lambert
Honorable mention: Aimee Graham
Honorable mention: Cindy Mount
There was very little distinction between each of the submissions, and we feel like every single one of them were meaningful, well-written, and inspiring. We're so excited to share these wonderful stories below for you to enjoy.
But, those five stories weren't the only high-quality submissions we received. There were many more!
So, be looking for more stories from this challenge coming to you on Wednesday, August 13. We'll be releasing a printable PDF of these five winners and also a collection of outstanding stories from: Grace Booth, Angela Chambers, Chayanne Hanlon, Sandi Herron, Karen Huffaker, Ellen Kolman, Sandy Lemoine, Susan Mathews, Teresa Marita McGuire, Matthew Partain, Lottie Partridge, Rose Walker, and Lynn Watson.
Each of the writers selected will be sent a printable document by email, so that they can share it with others. It will also be available in our Facebook group
Congratulations to all of these writers.
"Kayleigh’s Cat"
by Vicki Moats
Grief is stealthy like a big cat. It stalks you and pounces when you’re most vulnerable. Even then, it doesn’t slay you. It plays with you and then releases you only to stalk and pounce again.
I am old. I have felt my share of grief. So much so, in fact, that I no longer cry. It’s as if the tears I cried in my youth filled God’s jar, and He closed the lid. Now, I swallow my grief, and it sinks through my body like a stone. It weighs me down, and I no longer have the release of tears.
So it is that I grieved Kayleigh, an angelic child, whose life was cut short due in part to her birth parents’ drug abuse, a failed medical system, and ultimately, the will of God. I don’t blame God, and I’m not angry with God. I rest my faith on Isaiah 57:1-2 that God takes the righteous to protect them from future harm. Still, I mourn her passing, and grief lurks in unguarded moments.
Kayleigh was adopted as an infant by a friend of mine who was a neonatal nurse and knew her parents’ drug history. She was an adorable child with blonde curls that reflected the sunlight and eyes the blue of the sky on a perfect day. Although she lived with mild autism, Kaleigh was surprisingly outgoing, and we became friends at our first meeting. I affectionately called her my granddaughter-in-love.
Autism was not Kayleigh’s only battle. First came the seizures. They began as eye blinking blackouts. Over the years, other health problems followed. In early adolescence, her autonomic nervous system started failing and her headaches worsened. Still, Kayleigh played the piano, read books- including her Bible, listened to praise music, and lit up the room when she smiled. In and out of hospitals with doctors less than supportive, Kayleigh’s adoptive mother sought help. None was forthcoming. When her headaches became unbearable, doctors began to draw spinal fluid to ease the pressure. She was sent home with medication which did not work. The fluid would build up again. Kayleigh would go back to the hospital and have it drawn off. She would be sent home over and over again with medicine which didn’t work.
In desperation, Kayleigh’s mother found a hospital halfway across the country that agreed to put a shunt or stent at the base of Kayleigh’s brain to drain the fluid away. The first surgery was cancelled because the stent was too large. After locating a smaller stent, surgery was rescheduled and Kayleigh’s hope of living pain free was about to be recognized. All her friends, including my husband and me, sat by our phones as we awaited the news.
Finally, it came. The surgery was a success! Kayleigh was healed! We were overjoyed.
In the midst of our rejoicing, however, there came another text: In the recovery room nurses noticed some bleeding, but the surgeons can control t. Still, good news.
Many minutes later came the final text: Doctors were unable to stop the bleeding. Kayleigh is dead.
Dead? How was it possible? She was supposed to be healed. We were numb. Blank.
As I stated before, grief is anatomical to me. As I began to grieve the loss of our Kayleigh, I could feel its heaviness as I went about daily tasks. Sometimes, my husband and I would share memories of her, and that gave a temporary reprieve. It was as if our speaking of Kayleigh kept her alive.
Nothing else seemed to help… until Christmas.
We hadn’t spent time with Kayleigh’s parents since her death, so we were excited and a little apprehensive when they invited us to their home for a pre-Christmas meal. We could not imagine their pain since our own emotions were so raw. The evening went well as we shared food and memories, and before we left, Kayleigh’s mother gave me a gift. I opened it, and there was a felted cat Christmas ornament. She said that it was one of Kayleigh’s favorites. I stared down incredulously at a happy Christmas cat somewhat worn by loving hands, Kayleigh’s hands. I almost cried.
My husband and I didn’t talk much on the long drive home. The evening had been too beautiful, too cherished to spoil with words. Once home, I hung Kayleigh’s cat on the kitchen cabinet and went to bed. The next morning as I poured my coffee, there was Kayleigh’s cat smiling at me with a small red dot of a tongue sticking out of its mouth. What a happy cat!
How like Kayleigh herself! I thought of her laughter, and my mood lifted.
Day after day and many times throughout the day, I would pass through the kitchen and gaze at that cat in its green boots and red striped scarf and its snowflakes and sparkles. Sometimes I would touch it and feel close to Kayleigh because I knew she had held it and loved it.
There is nothing mystical in that touch. I know Kayleigh isn’t there. In truth, I wouldn’t want Kayleigh back on this earth to suffer more than she already had. I am thankful that our kind and loving Heavenly Father spared her from the evil that was to come. Moreover, I am confident that she is playing the piano in Heaven, singing praise songs, and making it even brighter with her smile.
Meanwhile, I have Kayleigh’s cat. Perhaps, that’s what grief needs, an object to hold onto, rather than the prowling emptiness of loss. I can think of nothing better to fill the void than a Christmas cat in green boots, a red scarf, some snowflakes and sparkles, and a crooked grin with a red dot tongue that is slightly worn from being loved by the hands of the one you love.
"Redeemed!"
by Suzanne D. Nichols
One old shoe, pushed to the back of a shelf for thirty years, was about to be tossed in the trash when I asked if I could claim it. My grandmother knew I loved odd things of this sort. Still, she cautioned, “There’s no mate to it. Aunt Clara left it here after a visit years ago—way back in the Forties. There’s no use for it now.”
A glimpse into a past era held me momentarily spell-bound. I could not comprehend how a lady of that time, with a dress, a hat, and gloves to match, would leave one shoe behind and not make it her goal to see the pair united once again.
As I stood lost in thought, my grandmother placed the shoe in my hand. Styled from brown leather and suede, it felt small, very slim, and stiff with age. The sole and two-inch heel were worn smooth. A brown satin ribbon, once laced into a perky bow down the front, now hung limp and frayed.
“No use?” I questioned, “Why, of course there is.”
My grandmother tilted her head. “What could you possibly do with this old thing?”
“Well …” I paused to mentally organize the flow of ideas. “I have a cherished photo of you and Grandpa … a nice piece of crocheted lace … and a few small antiques. I think I’ll arrange them on an accent table and let this old shoe have a new point of view.”
Years later, I still gaze at it this odd piece of home décor and I think of my grandmother’s assessment: “No use for it now.” No doubt, this shoe was made for just one thing: to be worn as part of a matched pair. No doubt, its designed usefulness came to a halt when Aunt Clara left it behind; and expectations for renewing its original use faded as the years slipped by. Yet, the preservation of this old shoe confirms that hope lives on even through change, even in the dark, even at the edge of a trash bin.
From redemption’s point of view, this forgotten, useless old shoe has value and purpose.
Scripture gives us a poignant account of renewed purpose in Luke 19. Jostled, ignored, and pushed aside along an ancient Jericho road, a despised Jewish tax collector chose a point of view with results he didn’t expect. But his curiosity led him to experience true redemption the day Jesus found him perched in a sycamore-fig tree. Initially, Zacchaeus was satisfied to remain concealed by tree branches, content with the expectation of only a passing glimpse of the Man among the crowd.
But Jesus desired more for Zacchaeus. He invited Himself into the hated and rejected man’s life, drawing him from the back of alienation’s dark shelf. Jesus spoke his name, confirming his worth. And with that, the Redeemer carried Zacchaeus forward, not to the edge of rejection’s trash bin, but to a new purpose and a new life filled with gratitude and generosity.
Jesus came to find the lost, to bring forth the pushed back, to renew the old. One long-forgotten, age-stiffened shoe taught me that hope can be revived at the edge of a trash bin in the same way redemption and renewed purpose reached a rejected man crouched on a branch of a sycamore-fig tree.
Behind those trees lies a pond— a small pond full of life lessons and memories.The pond was where I learned to cast a reel and watch a bobber for a bite. I caught my first “monster,” with a yellow Mickey Mouse fishing pole. Just as I had the fish on the muddy bank, my line snapped. The fish flopped itself right back into the water. My grandpa dove in after it, shoes and all. I’ll never forget him exclaiming that he had it as it slipped through his hands, wiggling away, taunting us with one last splash of its massive tail, before disappearing under the muddy water. I may not have gotten the fish, but I got to keep the memory.
When I was older, my Mickey Mouse pole was replaced with an old black Zebco, and the bobber was removed because you either “… know it, or you don’t. If you don’t, you miss out on some good eatin’.”
There were lots of good meals that came from the pond stocked full of catfish. On the nights we ate fish, everyone had a job.
My grandpa cleaned the fish. My granny filled a paper bag with a cornmeal flour mixture used to coat the fish for frying. My grandpa fried the fish first, and then the French fries. Granny lined the pans with more paper bags, mixed up the hush puppies, and then she cooked the hush puppies because no one else could do it right, she said.
My job was to run the paper lined pans from and to the kitchen. The empty, fresh-lined pans went out to my grandpa, and then the pans piled high with fish back into the kitchen to Granny to “keep warm”. As soon as one was full, an empty one would take its place, just to be filled and taken back to the kitchen.
When everything was cooked, and the fire turned off under the grease, the entire family, and usually some close family friends, would sit down to a table filled with fried catfish, French fries, hush puppies, a pot of grits, ketchup, Tabasco, and homemade tartar sauce.
My grandpa passed away in September of ‘95, and the summer evenings catching and cleaning fish for a meal that filled not only our bellies but our hearts went with him.
The pond was soon hidden by pine trees my grandmother had planted. The trees hid the pond, but they didn’t bury the memories the pond held. As the years passed, the trees grew taller and thicker, and my memories became foggy.
Last fall, my grandmother passed away, and with her, the trees went as well. Seeing the muddy paths cut across a once green pasture, and ruins of trees that had been cut, left a wasteland. The sight of the stark bareness was shocking, but off to the side, tucked into a corner of the mess, was the pond. Still there. Still holding the memories that came flooding back as soon as my eyes focused on that water.
In a way, the pond reminds me of the way our Father loves us. He stands back, allowing us to forge ahead and watch us. Sometimes, our paths lead us away from Him. But when we finally look up, there He is, holding out His hand for us. Just as our Father is always near, so was the pond—faithful and still, waiting to return my memories to me, like a whisper from God to my heart.
It was late summer of 2021. I pulled into the parking lot of the county jail, exhausted, and circling the rim of a pit of despair. If I fell into that abyss, I knew I might never come back out. I wanted to “take every thought captive to Christ,” but the truth was, I had let my thoughts take me captive instead. This was my third (or was it my fourth?) trip to the jail to pick up my husband after bailing him out.
Bailing him out. Of jail. My husband is in jail. Jail! The words ran on repeat through my brain, surreal. I could make no more sense of those words than I could if they’d been in a foreign language. How could he be in jail? But here I was, sitting in this parking lot… again. l knew from the previous experiences that I’d likely be waiting hours before they finally released him and hat meant hours with nothing to do but try not to let my rogue thoughts run wild with fear, dread, and “what-if” scenarios.
How did we get here? What if my husband went to prison? What if he had another stroke from. this stress? Where is God??? Does he see what’s happening here? Does he care how unjust and unfair this is? How can he let my husband be falsely accused without even due process! Why wasn’t God putting a stop to it? Has he forgotten us? Would this nightmare ever end? Would we ever be free of it? On and on my thoughts assaulted me, and I cried out to the Lord for answers, wondering if they’d ever come. I knew that my husband was innocent, but I also knew that sometimes, innocent people go to prison …. would God allow it to go that far? And if he did, would I still trust him or would my faith falter?
Full of nervous tension, I turned on the radio. Blaring into the silence came the words of a song I’d never heard before:
“Cause there is a Savior who knows everywhere you’ve been, and he’s telling you that you never have to go back there again/ Then sing, ‘I’m walking, walking, walking free….” *
The music was powerful and confident, and it snapped me out of my panic as quickly as a slap to the face. If God hadn’t given me a spirit of fear- and I knew he hadn’t- then I had no business giving in to it and I had the authority to kick it back to the pit where it belonged.
Hope took hold in that moment, and I knew that someday, this would be over, and we could trust God in it, no matter what, and no matter where. Even in jail. Even if it went so far as prison. God might allow us to suffer injustice, but he would never allow us to suffer it alone.
And he would use it, every bit of it, for his glory and our good. Ultimately, we are free because we walk in HIS freedom, not because of our circumstances on this earth. The dungeon of my own fear and dread and anger and unforgiveness kept me far more imprisoned than a jail cell could ever keep my husband.
I began to envision the day my husband would walk out of the courthouse for the last time, the day the judge would pronounce him “free to go.” I clung to that hope, but I also knew that if God had another plan, then he also had a purpose for it.
In the end, it took nearly three years to prove my husband’s innocence. I’d like to say that day in the jail parking lot was the last time I ever got knotted up with fear or anger or dread. But the truth is that God had a lot more to teach me about trusting the process; not the justice system’s process, but HIS process of growing me, which is always trustworthy, even when it’s painful.
Whenever I was tempted to despair again, I sang that chorus to myself and imagined the moment my husband would walk free.
When the day finally arrived, I sat in the courtroom and wept as the judge thanked my husband for his patience, and declared, “Mr. Graham, you are free to go.” I wept with relief. I wept with joy. But mostly, I wept with gratitude to a faithful God who had carried us both through, just as he promised.
We walked out into the corridor and as the courtroom door swung shut behind him for the last time, before speaking to anyone else, my husband raised his hands and began to praise God. His face was pure joy and gratitude. I knew I wanted to capture that holy moment - that expression- forever. I didn’t have time to worry about the angle or the lighting. The authenticity meant more to me than technical perfection. I just grabbed my phone and shot. This image is the result. When I look at it, I remember that God never forgets us. I see the substance of what we hoped so long for, finally realized. I see waters parted and stones of memorial. And I see answered prayer.
*"Walking Free" by Micah Tyler
A glimpse into a past era held me momentarily spell-bound. I could not comprehend how a lady of that time, with a dress, a hat, and gloves to match, would leave one shoe behind and not make it her goal to see the pair united once again.
As I stood lost in thought, my grandmother placed the shoe in my hand. Styled from brown leather and suede, it felt small, very slim, and stiff with age. The sole and two-inch heel were worn smooth. A brown satin ribbon, once laced into a perky bow down the front, now hung limp and frayed.
“No use?” I questioned, “Why, of course there is.”
My grandmother tilted her head. “What could you possibly do with this old thing?”
“Well …” I paused to mentally organize the flow of ideas. “I have a cherished photo of you and Grandpa … a nice piece of crocheted lace … and a few small antiques. I think I’ll arrange them on an accent table and let this old shoe have a new point of view.”
Years later, I still gaze at it this odd piece of home décor and I think of my grandmother’s assessment: “No use for it now.” No doubt, this shoe was made for just one thing: to be worn as part of a matched pair. No doubt, its designed usefulness came to a halt when Aunt Clara left it behind; and expectations for renewing its original use faded as the years slipped by. Yet, the preservation of this old shoe confirms that hope lives on even through change, even in the dark, even at the edge of a trash bin.
From redemption’s point of view, this forgotten, useless old shoe has value and purpose.
Scripture gives us a poignant account of renewed purpose in Luke 19. Jostled, ignored, and pushed aside along an ancient Jericho road, a despised Jewish tax collector chose a point of view with results he didn’t expect. But his curiosity led him to experience true redemption the day Jesus found him perched in a sycamore-fig tree. Initially, Zacchaeus was satisfied to remain concealed by tree branches, content with the expectation of only a passing glimpse of the Man among the crowd.
But Jesus desired more for Zacchaeus. He invited Himself into the hated and rejected man’s life, drawing him from the back of alienation’s dark shelf. Jesus spoke his name, confirming his worth. And with that, the Redeemer carried Zacchaeus forward, not to the edge of rejection’s trash bin, but to a new purpose and a new life filled with gratitude and generosity.
Jesus came to find the lost, to bring forth the pushed back, to renew the old. One long-forgotten, age-stiffened shoe taught me that hope can be revived at the edge of a trash bin in the same way redemption and renewed purpose reached a rejected man crouched on a branch of a sycamore-fig tree.
"The Pond Behind the Trees"
by Amber Lambert
Behind those trees lies a pond— a small pond full of life lessons and memories.The pond was where I learned to cast a reel and watch a bobber for a bite. I caught my first “monster,” with a yellow Mickey Mouse fishing pole. Just as I had the fish on the muddy bank, my line snapped. The fish flopped itself right back into the water. My grandpa dove in after it, shoes and all. I’ll never forget him exclaiming that he had it as it slipped through his hands, wiggling away, taunting us with one last splash of its massive tail, before disappearing under the muddy water. I may not have gotten the fish, but I got to keep the memory.
When I was older, my Mickey Mouse pole was replaced with an old black Zebco, and the bobber was removed because you either “… know it, or you don’t. If you don’t, you miss out on some good eatin’.”
There were lots of good meals that came from the pond stocked full of catfish. On the nights we ate fish, everyone had a job.
My grandpa cleaned the fish. My granny filled a paper bag with a cornmeal flour mixture used to coat the fish for frying. My grandpa fried the fish first, and then the French fries. Granny lined the pans with more paper bags, mixed up the hush puppies, and then she cooked the hush puppies because no one else could do it right, she said.
My job was to run the paper lined pans from and to the kitchen. The empty, fresh-lined pans went out to my grandpa, and then the pans piled high with fish back into the kitchen to Granny to “keep warm”. As soon as one was full, an empty one would take its place, just to be filled and taken back to the kitchen.
When everything was cooked, and the fire turned off under the grease, the entire family, and usually some close family friends, would sit down to a table filled with fried catfish, French fries, hush puppies, a pot of grits, ketchup, Tabasco, and homemade tartar sauce.
My grandpa passed away in September of ‘95, and the summer evenings catching and cleaning fish for a meal that filled not only our bellies but our hearts went with him.
The pond was soon hidden by pine trees my grandmother had planted. The trees hid the pond, but they didn’t bury the memories the pond held. As the years passed, the trees grew taller and thicker, and my memories became foggy.
Last fall, my grandmother passed away, and with her, the trees went as well. Seeing the muddy paths cut across a once green pasture, and ruins of trees that had been cut, left a wasteland. The sight of the stark bareness was shocking, but off to the side, tucked into a corner of the mess, was the pond. Still there. Still holding the memories that came flooding back as soon as my eyes focused on that water.
"Free Man Walking"
by Aimee Graham
As a photographer, I could point out a dozen flaws in this photo. It’s never going to win any photography awards, that’s for sure. Nevertheless, it is perfect in my eyes. In the book of Joshua, God instructed the Israelites to gather stones from the river and set them up as a memorial so that whenever they saw those stones, they’d remember God’s faithfulness and how he’d parted the Jordan and brought them through. This image is my memorial. To fully understand why, we need to travel back in time to almost 3 years earlier.
It was late summer of 2021. I pulled into the parking lot of the county jail, exhausted, and circling the rim of a pit of despair. If I fell into that abyss, I knew I might never come back out. I wanted to “take every thought captive to Christ,” but the truth was, I had let my thoughts take me captive instead. This was my third (or was it my fourth?) trip to the jail to pick up my husband after bailing him out.
Bailing him out. Of jail. My husband is in jail. Jail! The words ran on repeat through my brain, surreal. I could make no more sense of those words than I could if they’d been in a foreign language. How could he be in jail? But here I was, sitting in this parking lot… again. l knew from the previous experiences that I’d likely be waiting hours before they finally released him and hat meant hours with nothing to do but try not to let my rogue thoughts run wild with fear, dread, and “what-if” scenarios.
How did we get here? What if my husband went to prison? What if he had another stroke from. this stress? Where is God??? Does he see what’s happening here? Does he care how unjust and unfair this is? How can he let my husband be falsely accused without even due process! Why wasn’t God putting a stop to it? Has he forgotten us? Would this nightmare ever end? Would we ever be free of it? On and on my thoughts assaulted me, and I cried out to the Lord for answers, wondering if they’d ever come. I knew that my husband was innocent, but I also knew that sometimes, innocent people go to prison …. would God allow it to go that far? And if he did, would I still trust him or would my faith falter?
Full of nervous tension, I turned on the radio. Blaring into the silence came the words of a song I’d never heard before:
“Cause there is a Savior who knows everywhere you’ve been, and he’s telling you that you never have to go back there again/ Then sing, ‘I’m walking, walking, walking free….” *
The music was powerful and confident, and it snapped me out of my panic as quickly as a slap to the face. If God hadn’t given me a spirit of fear- and I knew he hadn’t- then I had no business giving in to it and I had the authority to kick it back to the pit where it belonged.
Hope took hold in that moment, and I knew that someday, this would be over, and we could trust God in it, no matter what, and no matter where. Even in jail. Even if it went so far as prison. God might allow us to suffer injustice, but he would never allow us to suffer it alone.
And he would use it, every bit of it, for his glory and our good. Ultimately, we are free because we walk in HIS freedom, not because of our circumstances on this earth. The dungeon of my own fear and dread and anger and unforgiveness kept me far more imprisoned than a jail cell could ever keep my husband.
I began to envision the day my husband would walk out of the courthouse for the last time, the day the judge would pronounce him “free to go.” I clung to that hope, but I also knew that if God had another plan, then he also had a purpose for it.
In the end, it took nearly three years to prove my husband’s innocence. I’d like to say that day in the jail parking lot was the last time I ever got knotted up with fear or anger or dread. But the truth is that God had a lot more to teach me about trusting the process; not the justice system’s process, but HIS process of growing me, which is always trustworthy, even when it’s painful.
Whenever I was tempted to despair again, I sang that chorus to myself and imagined the moment my husband would walk free.
When the day finally arrived, I sat in the courtroom and wept as the judge thanked my husband for his patience, and declared, “Mr. Graham, you are free to go.” I wept with relief. I wept with joy. But mostly, I wept with gratitude to a faithful God who had carried us both through, just as he promised.
We walked out into the corridor and as the courtroom door swung shut behind him for the last time, before speaking to anyone else, my husband raised his hands and began to praise God. His face was pure joy and gratitude. I knew I wanted to capture that holy moment - that expression- forever. I didn’t have time to worry about the angle or the lighting. The authenticity meant more to me than technical perfection. I just grabbed my phone and shot. This image is the result. When I look at it, I remember that God never forgets us. I see the substance of what we hoped so long for, finally realized. I see waters parted and stones of memorial. And I see answered prayer.
*"Walking Free" by Micah Tyler
"Through the Lens of Wonder"
by Cindy Mount
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“The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands.” —Psalm 19:1
They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but I’ve come to believe that a photograph can hold so much more. For me, photography is not just a technical skill—it’s a sacred invitation to see God’s creation and respond in worship.
I’m telling my age when I say that my attempts at photography began with flashcube Kodaks—the reddish-orange hues of the 70s tinting memories with nostalgia. Then came Polaroids in the 80s and 90s, bringing the thrill of the instant: the quiet hum of the camera, that warm square developing in my hands as color slowly bloomed. No edits. No filters. Just truth captured and held. We would lean in, breath suspended, as the image emerged—it felt like witnessing a birth.
Digital photography brought its own awakening. Computer screens revealed colors printed photos never could. I began crafting photo albums online, each one a visual story, each page a thread in the tapestry of memory.
Then came the simplicity of phone cameras. Whether morning light tiptoed through clouds or tree leaves glowing with the golden breath of fall, the moment never felt random. It was reverent. It was my response to the beauty I beheld. I remember riding the Galveston ferry, watching the sun scatter diamonds across the waves. In a weary season of my life, I saw mercy flicker on the water—and I knew God was near.
“The Lord has His way in the whirlwind and the storm, and the clouds are the dust of His feet.” —Nahum 1:3
Photography has become my altar—an act of worship through beholding what the Creator still paints. I’ve captured green-hued ripples concealing sturgeon in an Oregon pond, a Ficus leaf pulsing with light, starfish resting on wet sand, and pets whose stares have healed more than they know. I’ve photographed my grandchildren—their eyes reflect more than joy. They carry legacy.
“Children’s children are a crown to the aged.” —Proverbs 17:6
That’s the miracle of photography. It invites the viewer into wonder but offers the photographer revelation. A sparkle in a child’s eye isn’t just light—it’s laughter, belonging, maybe even healing. A pet’s gaze may seem ordinary, but I remember the sigh before it, the unspoken comfort of presence.
Each photo holds a story—a memorial stone of God’s kindness, His artistry, His reminder that even in silence, He is speaking.
“For since the creation of the world, God’s invisible qualities…have been seen, being understood from what has been made.” —Romans 1:20
I earnestly try to capture the vision of what I see—fragments of heaven offered to those who might have missed them. My lens has taught me to slow down and notice what others overlook. Photography, for me, is not just a hobby, but a form of worship. It's not just about capturing creation—it’s letting creation capture me.
It’s more than a gentle invitation. It’s a command to pause, to cease striving, and to recognize the sovereignty of God in a chaotic world.
"Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth." –Psalm 46:10
One afternoon, I photographed a single leaf, lit from behind. It glowed with quiet life, its veins pulsing with a detail only sunlight could unveil. In that moment, I saw not just chlorophyll—I saw the intricacy of God’s design. The delicate beauty He placed in even the smallest things.
One afternoon, I photographed a single leaf, lit from behind. It glowed with quiet life, its veins pulsing with a detail only sunlight could unveil. In that moment, I saw not just chlorophyll—I saw the intricacy of God’s design. The delicate beauty He placed in even the smallest things.
~~
Aren't those stories of faith and resilience and imagination wonderful? We continue to be inspired by the creative work of our SCWC members, and we're pleased to be able to share these stories with you today.
We pray that they'll encourage you today, and that you'll also be motivated to send your submissions to us next month when we do another challenge.
And get ready to read the full compilation of submissions to the July writing challenge very soon.
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