The Photographer

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He carried a shy concern

that his retraction from

society might lead him to despair, or

leave him with some

sense he will never be

enough, or cause him to not keep his

agreement with God he

would live a worthy life. He

paused at his penchant for widened

swaths of solitude and the private

beauty he was retreated to. He was

perplexed that he felt

wary of those who

feigned affections for impossible

gospels just for the

feeling of fears assuaged.

Certitude was the most grievous of

pitfalls he was determined to

avoid. When he saw this in

others he sensed their claims

were fragile. He sensed these

people lived with some blind shame

and could not talk their

way out of it. Having walked the

lonely out of walking alone he

finally said these folks could not

hurt me unless somehow I needed the

pain. They could not engulf me unless

somehow I needed the oppression. They

are only as I am, being saved into

faith from what they once believed.

Without much in the way of knowledge or

skill, he bought a little camera and

reasoned to take simple

pictures of what actually exists and

show them to others who might have

some latent hunger for

the elements of earth and sky. He

worked in spite of his honest

misgivings, the gray and dull

emotions, the dread defining his

viewpoint. Then, with persistence and

and a little dumb luck his pictures just

might pique the mind and lift

a sunken chest of wonder

from the depths. He did

not know how his plan might develop, or

if his idea would work at all. Perhaps

that was the point he thought, and

that the hope of it

just might be


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