A Wedding in Williamsburg: Marc and Marlana

Some weeks ago, I received a call from my friend Marc.  He asked me if I would be willing to take photographs at his wedding rehearsal and ceremony, as I would already be attending.  I welcomed the opportunity and told him I would.  The Friday before last, I made the drive down to Williamsburg, pleasant enough considering the traffic nightmare that often plagues at least 10 miles of I-95.  Somehow, I arrived on time for the rehearsal, hungry after a lunch consisting of several handfuls of trail mix.

Three of the groomsmen were already good friends of mine from Virginia Tech, so I was happy to spend the evening with them.  The others, Marc's brother and friend from high school, are great guys as well, and it was hilarious to see all five of them together, enjoying the whole event.  They'd already had a great time at the bachelor party, continually laughing at whatever memories the phrases "But what if I don't have any pants?" and "It tastes so good!" inspired.

The rehearsal went well, so it was off to a wonderful neighborhood club for the rehearsal dinner.   By this time, I was considered part of the bridal party - something I hadn't expected!  We all sat together at dinner with a few of the bridesmaids, catching up with old friends and getting to know new ones.  Marc's father gave a wonderful welcome as we gathered and finished our meal.  Soon it was time for dancing, into which Marc's Italian relatives threw themselves passionately, as did most of us in the bridal party.

The next morning brought a quick breakfast with friends who would be attending the ceremony, and then I was off to the church at 11:00 for preparation and documentary-style photography.  I met the main wedding photographer, who, upon my asking if I could help at all, said, "Just make sure you stay behind me."  I suppose I could have been offended by what seemed to be a dismissal, but the man knew what he was doing.  So instead, I figured amusement was a better reaction!

The groomsmen got ready, making sure to play with Duplo blocks and dinosaurs before it became time to greet the wedding guests as they arrived.  I stood in the lobby, greeting friends I hadn't seen in some time, taking a few photos of the proceedings.

The ceremony itself was beautiful.  We sang Come Thou Fount and Be Thou my Vision, Marc and Marlana exchanged their vows, the pastor spoke well of marriage and the picture it paints of Christ's love for His church through a  husband's love for his wife.  I could sense the presence of God in that room - nearly hear Him smile and say this is good.

A reception afterwards, in the lobby.  Delicious cupcakes for all.  Wonderful conversations and many photographs.  The bride and groom cut the smallest wedding cake I had ever seen and were soon off to a second, more intimate reception.

I joined the groomsmen as we drove to New Town, a recent mixed commercial and residential development in Williamsburg.  The reception was held in the wonderful Legacy Hall.  Seeing as we somehow managed to arrive early, we decided to quickly run to Target to get supplies for decorating the newly-married couple's car.  After several conversations with elderly female shoppers commenting on our rugged handsomeness, we obtained some balloons, streamers, and beef jerky (why have breath mints when you can have beef jerky?), and returned to Legacy Hall.

After a delicious dinner, Austin gave a wonderful speech as best man; the bride's father spoke as well.  Marc and Marlana had their first dance together, and then the floor was opened up to the rest of the guests, at which point the groomsmen suspiciously disappeared to decorate the getaway vehicle.

Soon after returning to the hall, the dancing came to an end and it was time to see the bride and groom off.  We gathered outside, armed with small bubble-making devices.  Marc and Marlana exited the hall to our cheers and drove off to whatever secret location they were headed to.

***

It was a joy to spend the weekend with close friends of mine, and see Marc and Marlana get married.  I've been to several weddings over my lifetime, and every so often of these ceremonies is not simply special, but also holy.  This was one such ceremony, with such a focus on the God who created marriage, such a picture of sacrificial love between two people.  It was clear that Marc and Marlana desire to put Christ at the center of their marriage, to honor Him in the way they will live together.  They are blessed and will continue to be so!

I am so thankful for the opportunity to take photos during the course of the wedding events.  Congratulations to Marc and Marlana!

Did You Hear About the Magic Tractor?

I studied in Galway, Ireland, in the fall of 2009.  I had hoped that, at some point in those four months, I'd have a "stereotypical Irish adventure," which, to me, meant that I'd go somewhere and meet amazing people and have an experience that no guidebook could even hint at.  When my fellow exchange student, Mike, told me that he was going to spend a weekend trying to find his grandfather's house, I had a hunch that this could be it.  Somehow, I ended up joining him.

Our trip began Saturday morning at 8:30, as we walked to the bus station at Eyre Square and bought our tickets to Ballinlough, which required a 2 hour stopover in Knock.  Mike told me more about his family history as we rode; how getting any information to confirm the family tree would absolutely delight his grandfather, who hadn't seen his childhood home in many years.

We arrived in Knock around 10:00, to find the place mostly deserted.  Knock is a beautiful little town where, in the early 1900s, about fifteen people saw a vision of the Virgin Mary in the sky.  Since then, a huge Catholic shrine has been built and Knock has become a place of pilgrimage.  Shops on the main road sell all sorts of figurines and images of saints.  Mike, a Roman Catholic, found all of this intensely fascinating.  We wandered around the shrine, through the gardens and Stations of the Cross paths, while I, from a Protestant background, had the chance to ask him about all these traditions and rituals of which I knew nothing.

After visiting the shrine, we went to find a place to eat before the arrival of the next bus.  One restaurant proudly proclaimed that it was open, so on we went, until arriving at the door to find it locked, all lights off.  Amused, we moved on to a little coffee shop and got some drinks.  Time ticked away and we began to get agitated, not seeing any wait staff to ask for our check.  I looked out the window to see the bus arriving three minutes early.  "Let's go!" I said, as Mike and I indiscriminately threw coins on the table, hoping it would be enough to pay the bill.

The bus drove away just as we got out the door.  Still another minute until it was supposed to arrive.  Mike muttered something to the effect of "Irish efficiency is either an oxymoron or deviously true" and we stood there at the bus stop wondering what to do next.  Then our waitress came out and said, "Sorry, but you're two euro short."  We imagined now that all of Ireland was laughing at our expense.

Paid in full, we decided there was nothing to do but start walking.  What would have been a 20 minute bus ride would now take about 3 hours by foot.  Thankfully, after about 10 minutes, a woman stopped to ask where we were headed.  "Ballinlough," we said.  As she happened to be passing by there, she offered us a ride.  We put her just-purchased giant portrait of St. Someone in the trunk and climbed in.  She was a quiet person, so we had an awkward non-conversation before arriving in Ballinlough around noon.  After profuse thanks on our part, she drove off.

"So, this is Ballinlough at noon on Saturday," Mike said.  Not a soul was out.  No cars on the streets.  No shops open - except, finally, a little newsstand, nestled amidst the larger storefronts.  Mike asked for directions to Grange, a nearby region where the house was supposedly located.  The clerk had no idea, and pointed us to the pub that had just opened.  We crossed the street and entered, greeting the barman and explaining ourselves again.  "Up that road about a mile," said he.  "Take a left after the fuel station, and go another two miles; you'll find yourself near the right spot."

Turned out the fuel station was the only place to get lunch as well, which felt fairly Appalachian to me, although the fish and chips we had were distinctly Irish.

We continued our journey, hoping we'd stumble upon the house.  After a short walk from the station, a woman suddenly appeared from a side road.  We greeted her, to which she replied, "Oh, are ye strangers?"  We conceded the fact and Mike explained our mission.  "Oh, the Naughton house!  Well, let me take you to the Burkes, they live just this way.  Relatives of the Naughtons, they are."

Mike and I looked at each other, each thinking, well, why not? and followed.  We arrived at the Burkes a few minutes later, and awkwardly stood in the driveway while the woman went to find Mr. Burke, who was tinkering with something in the shed.  "Descendents of the Naughtons are here," she said, for apparently I was now grafted into the family.  Mr Burke, to our astonishment and delight, was willing to drop everything and drive us to see the house Mike was looking for.  Not only that, but he took us to several graveyards where Mike's ancestors were buried.  On the way, he described the woman who had met us as "the odd bird in the village."

We arrived at the Naughton house, and Mr. Burke took us to the door.  Our knocks were greeted by two brothers, who were happy to see Mr. Burke and looked at us as if to say and you are?

Once they determined Mike was a distant relative of theirs, they began collecting all the photos they could find while poring over the family tree Mike had in an attempt to correct errors and piece together missing links.  Throughout the visit, they kept saying, "If we had known you were coming, we'd have gotten all this together already!"  As if we would have been able to give them advance notice!

Soon, all five of us were seated in an dark, old kitchen with a wood-fired stove.  The three Irishmen were smoking and I still hate myself for not taking a photograph of these three weathered men wreathed in smoke.

I also wish I had photographed the horse that decided to nose the front door open and walk right on in the house while we sat there.  Especially since I had a second opportunity to do so not 10 minutes later.

After a grand discussion and several photographs taken for Mike's records, Mr. Burke took us back to his house, where we had tea and Halloween Brack (a kind of raisin bread) with him and his wife.

It soon came time for us to return to town so as to not miss our bus.  Mrs. Burke, who had to take her younger daughter somewhere, offered to drive us.  Gladly, we agreed.  She took us on a short tour of the area, showing us the ancient church at Kiltirlough (Irish: Kil - church Tir - dry Lough - lake), and other remnants of past days.  We went into town and stopped at Fitzmaurice's for drinks and a wonderful conversation with the bartender, as no one else was there.  He told us uproarious stories of the two brothers we had met, imitating their thicker West Irish accent perfectly.  "Did you hear about the magic tractor," he asked us, saying it was the favorite joke of one of the brothers.  "It turned into a field."

We left after that, so thankful for the incredible hospitality of all the people we had met.  The whole ride back, Mike and I rehashed the events of the day, laughing at the improbability and wondrousness of it all.

Mission Accomplished.

How Not to Photograph Lightning

Someone reading this post is probably sincerely hoping for a story about how I, through sheer stupidity, got myself electrocuted.  To this I say two things.  One, you will be sincerely disappointed and Two, really? Either you have an unhealthy fascination with unlucky situations, or you have a personal vendetta against me - in which case it would be best if we just sorted it out.

Moving on.

We had a terrific thunderstorm this past weekend down in Blacksburg, VA.  As it was rolling in, I thought, excellent, I can get a bunch of awesome lightning photographs and put them on the internet and everyone will want to buy them and I'll be able to afford more expensive sandwich bread.

So, sitting on a bench underneath a shelter at the wonderful Heritage Park, I began trying to time my photographs to the lightning flashes.  Having set my shutter speed to 1/13th of a second to optimize my chances of capturing a flash without having a blurry image, I took approximately 60 photographs.  The best of these, seen above, has a small lightning bolt in the top right corner, which looks less like the stereotypical mental image of lightning most of us have and more like whatever I drew on the wall the first time I ever held a pen.

My friends and I then left Heritage Park and returned to our apartment complex.  At this point, oddly, the rain had stopped, while the lightning increased in frequency - once every ten seconds or so.  Aha! thought I, now in possession of my tripod.  Pleased with this development, I lengthened my shutter speed to 4 seconds, pointed the camera at the sky in some arbitrary direction where the lighting was striking, and began firing away.

Most of the resulting images looked like this nonsense, at right.  Who likes this photograph?  Does it evoke strong emotion?  Is it a powerful display of the forces of nature? Nobody, no, and absolutely not.  If I did have the shutter open when lighting struck, it was generally out-of-frame, yielding only a surreal purple glow among the clouds.  Not all that exciting.  If there had been a flying Delorean in the picture, then we'd have something to go with.

Finally, however, after 60 more photos (for a total of roughly 120), the lighting happened to strike in frame:

Now, this is not going to be in National Geographic, but considering I really had no idea what I was doing, I decided I was satisfied, put my camera away, and called it a night.  Next thunderstorm, I hope to be a little more prepared and able to get something truly spectacular.

Appalachia Service Project - Spring 2009

[NOTE: I first published this in March 2009.  Appalachia Service Project works to help repair homes in some of the poorest counties of Appalachia.]

They purchased the house 22 years ago. Another family had tried and failed to win the contract and, as an act of revenge, set fire to the house.

It stands today, fire damage still evident. Seven children have grown up in this single-story, white five-room house. The youngest, Paul, is thirteen; his older brother, eighteen.

At some point along the way, Appalachia Service Project came into the picture and began to fix the house. Not only is there fire damage, but water damage and rot and termites and a poor foundation have also taken a toll on the building. The family, of meager means, had no way to adequately repair the house on their own. Through ASP, they depend solely on the love and work of volunteers.

I, along with several others from InterVarsity or other organizations at Virginia Tech, Old Dominion, and Saint Louis Universities, was one of these volunteers. Our team spent the week reinforcing the roof with cross-bracing, tearing out ruined insulation and walls, and demolishing the structurally-unsound front of the house. A second group, from Old Dominion, finished installing a new floor in the main room, as well as adding a new interior wall. Before we arrived, previous groups had replaced several exterior walls and removed the interior carpeting. The week after our work, a group came to finish the foundation for a new front room and porch.

Each day, we would leave the worksite for lunch, driving a mile down the road to an old farmhouse, built in 1793. Six years after the Constitution was drafted. Two hundred and sixteen years ago. There, we talked to the family about the Civil War, Confederate flags, the C.S.A. Hunley, railroads, and all sorts of things while we ate our peanut butter and jelly (or turkey) sandwiches. They invited us into their lives, showing us some of their prized possessions, allowing us to play with their amazing dogs, evil goose, mellow horse.



We grew to love this family. We grew to love their determined outlook on life, despite the hardship they faced. We grew to love their selflessness and openness. We grew to love all the history in their minds, homes, and yard.
Little in my life has been more fulfilling than spending eight hours a day, for a five day week, giving my all to see this family have a warmer, safer, drier home. Little has been more fulfilling than seeing their appreciation and seeing the change in the house itself. In all of it, I could see Christ. In their hospitality. In the friendships created and strengthened. In the work we did. In the love that sprang up that week. Christ was there.

“…I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.”
-Matthew 25:40

Christ came to serve, not to be served. And we, his followers, are called to do the same. How wonderful it was to serve this family in the spirit of Christ, expecting nothing in return. I shall not forget them.



[To the best of my knowledge, work on the house is complete.  It has new siding, a new front porch, a new bathroom, and is finally weatherproof and free of fire damage.  I have as of yet been unable to go back and see for myself.]

http://asphome.org/