From a Fellow Traveler
As a kid at summer camp, This Little Light of Mine always seemed like a happy song to me. It was a song of strength and defiance; nothing was going to snuff out your glow! Perhaps you sang it like I did: holding a flashlight in one hand and covering it with your other, exposing the light in rhythm with the song.
At camp, there wasn’t any real threat to the light. And the atmosphere of your friends and the warm summer air made it feel easy to sing with confidence.
Yesterday, I stood on the beach of South Haven, Michigan trying my best to get a photo of their iconic red lighthouse, and that song popped into my head.
The warm summer breeze and crackling campfire felt distant and nothing about letting my little light shine felt easy.
Standing on the East Coast of Lake Michigan in winter is like being stabbed by hundreds of needles at once. The wind rips through your clothing no matter how much you try to bundle up, and the spray of the water is like a vicious slap on the face. It’s beautiful and brutal all at once.
You have to will your body to stay still, especially when trying to get your photo composed. So I am glad the lens has image stabilization, as I am starting to shiver. I have to chuckle: the waitress at the restaurant told us, “Oh, this isn’t winter; it kind of feels like fall…” These Michiganders mean business.
I enjoy the right and left brain mix that photography provides. There is a strong artistic aspect, but under the surface is a whole ocean of technical calculations all working together to capture light.
George Eastman, the founder of Eastman Kodak, described it this way:
Light makes photography. Embrace light. Admire it. Love it. But above all, know light. Know it for all you are worth, and you will know the key to photography.
So as I stand there, fighting the elements, I am doing the calculations I always do when trying to get the shot and capture the light in the right way.
I need my shutter to be quick, as I want to freeze the water as it hits the end of the pier; but if it’s too quick, I won’t have enough light. I could open the aperture, but then my depth of field is going to shrink down … maybe that is OK for this shot … Do I just want the end of the pier and lighthouse to be sharp, or do I want the waves in the foreground as well? I could close down the aperture, and compensate with raising my ISO; that would add noise, though … but the sensor is full frame; it should be fine…
That’s the internal dialogue; at this point, I don’t really even think about it.
As I frame up the lighthouse with my camera, I like the strength it conveys. Through the wind, water, and ice, that red lighthouse definitely lets its light shine. I can’t help but think of the similarities to my wife.
(Probably a dangerous sentence to write: “Honey, you are as pretty as a lighthouse.” Isn’t that in the Song of Solomon somewhere?)
My wife has been a beacon of light to a lot of folks over the last few months. I know her story is also cautionary; she would want to warn folks to take their health seriously. A warning beacon of light; like I said, a lighthouse.
(She’s mighty-mighty, just letting’ it all hang out. Wait; that’s not a lighthouse. That’s a Brick House … Sorry; I couldn’t help myself…)
As I check the edges of the frame, I am drawn to the catwalk leading to the upper entrance of the lighthouse. It stretches back to shore, elevated above the spray, so that the lightkeeper doesn’t get swept away into the lake by high waves battering the lighthouse and pier.
The camp song doesn’t leave much room for the lightkeeper. “This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.”
But that’s not how a lighthouse works. (Or perhaps I should say, that is not how they have traditionally worked.) If a lighthouse was shining, it was because a lightkeeper was constantly working to maintain the lens, the oil, and the wicks.
You can see the light of the lighthouse, even on a cold and stormy night; but only because the keeper is taking care of the light.
The last couple months, I have received compliments from folks about how I have expressed my faith, as if they could see my little light shine in what has been a dark and stormy stretch for my family.
People will also say to my wife, “You are so strong,” or “You look so radiant!” It’s true; she is both of those things. But, as she would say, “What choice do I have?” Probably about as much choice as the lighthouse.
What people don’t necessarily see, what doesn’t seem obvious until you think about it, is that the only way we are able to shine at all is because of the lightkeepers.
We have less in common with little kids, warmed by the campfire, with a belly full of S’mores and a flashlight shining into the starlit sky, and much more with the lighthouse being battered by the elements, but shining on because of the lightkeeper’s constant care.
I think that’s why I want the catwalk—and by extension, the lightkeeper—as part of this photo story. I see the people tending to my wife, and they don’t get enough recognition for what they are doing for her (and honestly, for me and my girls, as well).
I really want to head back to the car, as the waves aren’t hitting in a way that makes me think I am going to get the photo I have pictured in my head. I’ve seen amazing shots of this lighthouse, covered in ice, with waves crashing over the top of it. I won’t get that today; but maybe if I wait a bit longer, I can get something that makes standing here in the cold worthwhile.
At least I am not alone out here. My youngest wanted to brave the wind with me, but I know she isn’t going to last much longer. Her mother and sister were a bit wiser and sit in the car with hot cocoa.
<click> <click> <click>
Eastman was right: light makes photography.
I think I might have captured something: not a perfect shot, but at least one to remember this moment by; one that the girls will be able to look at and go, “That was a fun trip! Can we do it again?!”
As we head toward the car, I think about how much I love this hobby. In the midst of such a challenging season, it feels good to be taking pictures again.
Standing on that bitter shore, framing that historic lighthouse—it makes me want to say a simple prayer of thanks for all of our lightkeepers, people who daily continue to reflect the ultimate Lightkeeper in our lives.
This moment, here, today is a gift: to be with my family, in a place of rest and retreat, thrilled to be doing something I love, and grateful for the lightkeepers.
(Even if I can’t feel my fingers and toes.)
Featured photo by the author. Used by permission. [View larger.]
