I made my decision. I would honor my father and wait to be given the pictures in his time, not mine.
Feeling frustrated but resolute, I knew what I needed most in that moment was a place to think and pray, somewhere quiet that I could disengage from everything that pulled at my affections and concentrate solely on God. I put the car in gear and pulled back onto the road to go in search of just that. The beach would have been a good choice, but traffic was so heavy that I knew an hour wasn’t enough time.
Needing somewhere closer, I continued down the road, eyes open for other possibilities. When I was nearly to Lark’s house and still hadn’t found any place to retreat, I turned into a shopping center I’d noticed before, one that had a coffee shop with a large outdoor patio landscaped with trees, flowers, and a bubbling fountain. It wasn’t secluded, but at least it looked peacefully busy. People were scattered about the tables, most talking quietly or tapping away at laptops.
I bought a large cup of black coffee and settled into a chair by the fountain, hoping that the sound of water rushing over stone would help me be still. Sprinklings of conversations and the songs of the birds that never had to fly south for the winter filled the air. Across from me, a woman and her two young children sat next to a playpen of puppies they were hoping to give away. On the other side of the fountain was a frozen yogurt shop, and every time someone opened the door, a few bars of reggae music floated onto the patio.
I found it difficult to pray there, so finally I turned my intentions to thinking instead. Sitting there among the busyness, I thought about my father first. Then Liz. Brady. Rachel. My mother. I thought about this thing, whatever it was, that pulled at me from the outside when I was home—yet pulled me home when I was out. I wondered, yet again, which man I was and in which place I truly belonged. If only God would show me soon!
I sipped my coffee and watched people stop to pat, hold, and cuddle the frolicking puppies. When I was done, I tossed out my empty cup and walked over to see them for myself, nodding at the older of the two children.
“Want to hold one?” he asked.
I held out my hands and the boy gave me a wriggling, spotted dog.
The pup smelled of wood shavings, energy, and confident trust. It had been a while since Timber had been a puppy, and longer still since we’d had much livestock. These days our attention was almost solely on the buggy shop. But holding that little dog reminded me of younger years when I was given a piglet to raise, or chickens to care for, or when one of our horses foaled. New life always reminded me of God’s purposes being renewed in the most basic of ways.
I held the dog close to my face and he licked my cheek with his tiny pick tongue.
“You want him?” the boy asked.
“I’m just visiting,” I said, shaking my head as I handed the puppy back. It wasn’t until I turned to go that I realized what I’d just said.
It was true. I felt like a visitor. No matter where I was, I felt like a visitor.
It was as if when I turned six, that’s what I became. A visitor.
I made it to Lark’s house at two o’clock sharp. She thanked me again for being flexible with the time and then led me to the dining room, where she had spread out on the table prints of the pictures I’d taken with both the digital and the film camera. We looked over the digitals first, reviewing my composition, and then she made me go through the film shots one by one, comparing each against the notes I’d taken while shooting them.
Overall, I decided, a few were rather nice, most were okay, and a number were just plain terrible. We studied them together for a while, but finally I sat back in my chair, defeated.
“Well, I think one thing has been made very clear,” I said, taking in the pictures in their entirety. “I do not have an eye for photography.”
“Why would you say that?”
“These are just ho-hum. They’re nowhere near as good as anything you’ve taken. Even your early stuff.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. They’re not that bad.”
“Don’t be so easy on me. They’re not that good.”
Lark picked up a photo I had taken of a Corvette that had been parked at the beach lot. I’d thought my dad might like it. “This one’s pretty good.” She handed it to me.
“It’s okay.”
She picked up another, of a gull walking the fine line between wet sand and dry. “I like this one.”
“It’s not bad. I just don’t see a story in any of these the way I saw in yours.”
“Well, it’s only your second try at it, Ty. You’ll get better. It’s like anything that requires practice. The more you do it, the easier it will become and the better your results will be. I’m sure the first buggy you made had its problems.”
I laughed and tossed the photo of the Corvette onto the table. “Not this many problems.”
Sitting back in my chair, I met the eyes of my tutor and friend and told her, reluctantly, that I had a feeling we were about done.