My Grampa was a photographer. An honest-to-goodness, old-fashioned lover of pictures. He shot with film and had a dark room where he developed his black-and-white snapshots of kids, grand kids, and all the natural beauty surrounding his home near Yellowstone National Park.
Today, as the big Montana sky morphed from gray and snowy to dollops of white fluff against a background of blue, I couldn't help but think of him. His shutter finger would have been twitching as the scenery and lighting outside changed almost by the second, becoming more and more beautiful as the day drew into night.
I think he would have shot two, three, or maybe even four rolls of film today. That's a lot for all you digital camera folks out there. He would have captured the miniature ice cycles hanging from the boughs of pine trees. And the snow piled on the picnic table. And the way the snowy mountains looked like a zebra -- shade, sun, shade, sun, shade.
I did.
I shot "rolls" of film today, trying desperately to capture this beauty that made me feel like I would burst with wonder.
I didn't capture it; not really, anyway. But I tried, as my Grampa always tried, and I hope that pleases God. For if I desire to be close to His amazing works, if I try to imitate them and capture the feeling of pleasure they give me, I worship Him.
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