I was teaching my sixteen-year-old daughter how to drive. The storm was gathering outside, and inside, our car. I wasn’t so much afraid for my life, as I was for hers. She didn’t seem to notice. It was all good.
“Pull over,” I said.
“Why?” It was her favorite question.
“Because I don’t want to die today.”
“Come on, Dad. Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Just pull over.”
My knuckles were white. My feet were pressed against the floor boards. I opened the door, got out of the car and took a deep breath. That’s when I could smell it, the rain, on a gentle breeze. I could see it coming. I knew it was going to be big, the storm. I breathed it in. I let it go. I felt a drop and grabbed my camera. The picture kept the storm from coming.
“You’re doing fine,” I said. “Let’s go home before the rain hits.”
She smiled and pull out.
“Don’t forget to signal,” I said, my feet pressing firmly on the invisible brakes.
A few nights ago, we were just wrapping a shoot on the campus of Brigham Young University. It had been raining in the valley most of the afternoon and snow had been falling in the higher elevations. Just before the sun set, it dropped below the storm and lit up the mountain. I had just come out of one of the buildings to this scene. I wished I had a better vantage point, a better view. I find, often, that the challenge is not to find a better view, but to see the world where I am in interesting ways. The light changed, the sun dropped below the horizon, it’s brilliance faded. Yet, in that moment I marveled at the beauty. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to take a picture, for the light didn’t last.