"Be ready in 30 minutes," he said.

When I think of traveling, it's never like this. Not really. I tend to imagine observing carefully, watching, listening, marveling at the landscapes, architecture, and people, maybe even running—but not for my life. Not in flight from those who would kill me and the people I'm with.

At the same time, those are the moments that tend to create the most striking images, that if captured, more easily become legacies in themselves. At times I think war photography is the best photography of all. The most intriguing to me, that is. I've never even been close to experiencing it or observing it in person, but my imagination leads me to think of several skills and traits one must have: quick technical camera fingers, a heart of sensitivity to recognize the emotion in a scene, a heart of stone to withstand the horror and sadness and fear without going fetal, courage, fitness, traveling sense, cultural sense, ideally looks that aid in blending in, and at least some familiarity with the local language and customs. What a stressful adrenaline rush it must be.

It makes me think of the film Triage. And of the photographer I did a report on during my photojournalism class, Eugene Smith. Powerful stuff, but it must take its toll.

I suppose from a comfortable distance war photography fascinates and intrigues me. I wonder myself into war scenarios and imagine the images I'd capture, full of fear and pain and sometimes hope. Then my mind takes the next step and questions how I could get into that kind of job. And then it all stops because I realize that's ridiculous and I'd be too afraid anyway.

I'm not even paying attention to why Syria is having such a war, what is being done about it, what the losses are, or even the photographs coming out of such a conflict. But since I did happen upon her story, I have to say, I have a lot of respect for—and yes, curiosity about—photographers like Zohra Bensemra and all the others who risk their lives, and the lives of those supporting them, in conflict zones. It's almost unbelievable. But they've got pictures to prove it.

Loose Change

It's loss I don't like, not change. Loss of the things I can control, like my time, mostly. I feel like I'm in charge of that, so when something is sprung on me, it puts me off guard and sometimes upsets me, even to the point of anger at times. But that's usually when it's something that gives me the immediate gut reaction of unease. I don't know where that internal barometer is or how it gauges things, but at a split second I have already judged things, and I've learned that I need to suspend those feelings (or, accept them for the moment) and consider the situation more carefully. Often this means ultimately going against my gut reaction because I feel that it is logical to do so, although not necessarily more comfortable (i.e., less upsetting) by any means.

Most of this is very subconscious and instinctive. I'm only recently beginning to realize this kind of tendency in me has been cultivated over time and is probably a significant contributing factor in my inability to understand how God works—and how to let Him work—in my life. Literally, it means Him controlling my mind, essentially being me. That's how I understand it for now, anyway. And while all the pastors get up front and say that living with Christ is such a big adventure, go for it, it doesn't seem to be that way (and least, in the sense of it being all fun and games which is often the kind of slant I seem to hear) and even if it was, it's not like that even makes much sense when talking about an invisible God and a personal relationship. One can drop everything and go explore the Arctic at the drop of a hat, but one can't drop everything and immediately know someone else. And that's what this is about here, right? Abiding in Him and He abiding in me?

I'm changing my view of change. I am going to try and remember to not say "I don't like change" anymore, but rather "I don't like loss." The latter is much more consistently true and accurate than the former, and I like consistency and efficiency. (And I must emphasize that that thing—consistency—doesn't mean absence of change. It can be a consistency at a foundational level with truckloads of tweaks and alterations at a more surface level, which is generally what I'm talking about and what I see.) This means that I will admit to being wary of the threat of loss that succumbing to God's will surely means, but I'm also very eager, at some level, to experience the change wrought by such submission. Surely, there is a great difference. So, the loss may be great, but the change is to be greater.

The Destruction of Nature As It Should Be

I think I must've seen the trailer for this film a year or two ago. Then a few days ago I saw a clip of it. Then just now I watched it. For 40 minutes I was enthralled with some of the best juxtaposition of audio and video I've seen to date. I think my favorite shot is the helmet and mask coming out of the cloud of dust.

I was trying to figure out why I liked it so much, besides the freakish beauty of the entire thing. I'm drawn to beauty, after all, and even more so when it comes in hand with hard work, creativity, and passion. But this has something more, I thought. There's more to it for me than just the beauty and power, skill and athleticism. And then I realized—it's introverted.

It's the fact that there is absolutely no dialogue, no characters, and rarely is there a face shown. It's because there is a lot of slow motion, a lot of majestic scenery, a lot of bicycle-shop details. It's because it depicts transformation and change, exhilaration and speed, creativity and creation—but also destruction and waste, pain and loss. It's all there. It's an introspective look at the torment and flight of my soul. All in a beautiful video about mountain bikes.

Life Cycles.

   


Watch the film on YouTube here.

Missionary Magic

It's these stories I heard as a kid, the ones that seemed so fun and faraway.  The missionary stories.  The ones with people with normalish names who talked in funny languages to people with funnyish names.  Where animals often played a role.  Or huts.  Or people who wanted or used some kind of magic—but the missionaries' magic was always better.  Always better.

And then I grew up and became more interested in... I guess just everything else.  But still hearing those stories now and then in church or something would make my insides heavy and a little bursting and I had to use the utmost control to maintain my passive front.

And so it is.  Even—or especially?—after going out as a "missionary" myself.  And probably will always be.  And such it was today when I read the story of The Witch Doctor and the Preacher.  I've heard of the Stahls, Ferdinand and Ana, and how they were the pioneering force for Adventism in Peru and other places.  And perhaps even more importantly, I saw those same shepherds' huts and traveled through some of those same mountains.  I think that's what made the story a little special to me today.

Maybe someday I, too, will be a real missionary at heart.