From Shadows to Sunrise

 

From Shadows to Sunrise

August 18, 2025
In April of this year I could not bring myself to step outside, days when the world felt heavy and colorless. I didn’t want to do anything—not even the things that once brought me joy. My camera sat untouched, collecting dust like a forgotten part of me.

A few months ago, I truly believed I’d never feel good again. I thought that spark was gone for good, that the best I could do was just exist.

But here I am.

Not only stepping outside, but chasing sunrises again. Not just taking photos, but feeling them. Laughing. Living. Picking up my camera with excitement instead of obligation. The light I thought I had lost is coming back, and with it, a sense of wonder I thought was gone forever.

I’m still on the journey, but today, I’m grateful—for the progress, for the beauty, and for the chance to see the world through my lens again.

The Heart Behind the Light

The Heart Behind the Light

August 07, 2025 - Thursday

“Even through the lens of an old heart, there's still something worth seeing.”

This morning it was just a seagull sitting on a piling — quiet, still, not doing anything spectacular — and yet… something in it asked me to stop. To see it. To save it.

I don't always know why I take a picture. I just do. Something stirs and tells me, this moment matters.

Some days I wonder if anyone really notices. I spend time choosing a photo, reading through dozens of quotes until one feels like it belongs — sometimes for me, sometimes because I feel someone out there needs it. And just when I start to think maybe none of it really matters, someone will comment, “Thank you — I needed that.” And then I remember… maybe this is exactly what I’m supposed to do.

Yes, I want people to see my pictures — but more than that, I want them to feel what I felt when I stood there looking at it. I want them to know that there’s still beauty in the little things. That someone still believes in slowing down to notice them.

There’s a part of my heart — old as it may be — that’s still soft. Still full of wonder. Still beating for something.

Maybe that’s why I keep getting up each morning.
Krebs Lake, Pascagoula

 

 

Found Beauty

Found Beauty

August 01, 2025 - Friday

“I just let the pain take over, allowing it to numb the pain of being left behind.” ~ Jessica Sorensen
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This shot is from a few days ago. I had forgotten all about it until I passed the spot again this morning and saw the old chair still sitting there.
There was garbage scattered all around — the mess left behind after someone cleaned out an old store — but this chair caught my eye. Something about it… still upright, still shaped by the stories it’s carried.
Maybe I should do a whole layout of nothing but abandoned, thrown-out chairs. Think there’s a niche for that? 😄 I’ve heard of people making money off stranger things.
But honestly — if even one photo makes someone smile or feel something… then I’ve done my job. I’m doing what I enjoy, and I hope it brings a little light or laughter into your day too.  Pascagoula, MS 

 

Just Use a Card, Pawpaw

 

Just Use a Card, Pawpaw

July 31, 2025 Thursday

 “Sometimes when I need a miracle, I look into my grandchild’s eyes and realize I’ve already created one.” – Unknown
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Today has been a full Pawpaw kind of day, and let me tell you — I am worn out! I had Colton with me from early this morning, and we stayed busy from sunup until Daddy-O picked him up.

After we dropped Charlie off at school, Colton and I headed to the Beach Park. We played, laughed, and soaked in the morning light. Back home, the fun didn’t slow down one bit. Around 11:00, he crawled up into my lap and just melted into me. By 11:30, he was sound asleep and didn’t wake until nearly 2:30.

There’s something so special about that moment — holding him while he sleeps so peacefully. Knowing he feels safe, warm, and loved in my arms... well, it means more than I could ever put into words.

I’ve got a little story that gave me a good belly laugh today:
On the way to pick up Charlie this morning, we passed by the Waffle House. Colton spotted it and said, “Pawpaw, let’s stop and get waffles!” I told him, “I don’t have any money, buddy.” Without missing a beat, he said,
“That’s okay, Pawpaw — just use a card!”

I laughed so hard I couldn’t wait to tell Gage. That little boy is something else — smart, sweet, and just full of life. He’s a handful, sure… but he holds a big, big part of my heart.

Here’s a picture from the park this morning. One look at that face, and you’ll know exactly why today meant so much.

What We Don’t See

What We Don’t See

July 29, 2025 – Tuesday

“Be kind to people and don’t judge, for you do not know what demons they carry and what battles they are fighting.” ~ Vashti Quiroz-Vega

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Most mornings, I’m up by 4 a.m.

While most folks I know are just getting settled in for the night, I’m out chasing the day’s first light. I’ve been photographing the sunrise every morning for the past 15 years, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: the sun won’t wait. If I want to catch it, I have to show up.

 

This morning, I was back at The Point, walking the fishing pier before dawn. About halfway down, I noticed a man sitting alone on one of the benches. Just sitting quietly, staring out over the water. I’m pretty sure he slept there last night — maybe hoping the breeze off the water would keep him cool.

I don’t mean to sound paranoid but coming across someone out there that early makes me a little uneasy. Still, I spoke to him as I passed. He answered softly — just above a whisper.

Later, on my way back, I saw only his feet sticking out, his bicycle parked nearby, every bit of his life strapped to it. No name. No face. Just a quiet presence.

And a quiet reminder:

The line between “us” and “them” is thinner than we like to admit.

I’ve been guilty of judging too quickly — I think most of us have. It’s easier sometimes to look away, to shrug it off, to convince ourselves that people bring trouble on themselves. But the truth is, we don’t know what battles someone’s fighting.

We see the surface.

What we don’t see is the weight they carry.

 

Found Along the Way Back

Found Along the Way Back

July 28, 2025 -Monday
After all, the true seeing is within.” ~ George Eliot
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This morning at the Krebs Lake dock, the sun climbed gently over the water, soft and golden — the kind of light that doesn’t shout, but whispers you back to life. I was standing there, as I do most mornings now, watching the day begin. That’s when I noticed them — a pair of sunglasses left behind on the weathered planks. In one lens, I saw the sunrise. In the other, my own reflection.

It felt like a quiet message — a moment of seeing clearly.

On the way home, I noticed the bench on the little manmade island at IG Levy Park. Just one. Empty. Waiting. It looked like it had a story to tell, too — maybe one of quiet goodbyes or peaceful pauses. It made me stop and breathe.

 

Then not far from home, I passed two old chairs left out by the road. Rusted. Worn. One was sitting on the other like they were hugging and maybe saying ‘goodbye’ to each other. And I realized something: I’m seeing stories again — not just things. These scenes aren’t posed, not planned, not photoshopped or filtered. They’re just... real.

And the truth is, a few months ago, I wouldn’t have noticed any of this. I was in a darker place — one where worry clouded everything. But lately, it feels like I’m coming back to life. Not all at once. Just a little more each morning.

Maybe that’s why people connect with my photos. They aren’t just pictures. They’re how I see — and how I feel. Maybe folks see their own stories in them. Maybe, without knowing it, I’m helping someone else feel a little less alone.

And maybe — just maybe — this is what I’m meant to do right now.
 

The Quiet Side of Grief

The Quiet Side of Grief

July 27, 2025 - Sunday

 “Tears shed for another person are not a sign of weakness. They are a sign of a pure heart.” — José N. Harris
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This morning at The Point, the clouds hung heavy, but the light still found a way to shine through — and that felt fitting. My heart was already carrying the weight of someone else’s sorrow. Lauren is hurting deeply right now, and there’s not a thing I can do to take that pain away. That’s the hardest part of being a parent… when your child is grieving and there’s no bandage big enough to cover the ache.

I know that kind of pain — the kind that makes you feel alone, even when your arms are full of family. You ask yourself, “Will this ever stop hurting?” And the truth is, maybe not completely. Some losses never really leave us. But the sharpness dulls, and in time, the memories — the good ones, the silly ones, the quiet, beautiful ones — begin to ease the weight.

Sometimes just being present, listening, and offering love is all we can do. And maybe that’s enough.

So I stood there this morning, watching the sun fight its way past the clouds. It reminded me that grief doesn’t mean we’re broken. It just means we’ve loved deeply. And when we carry the memory of those we’ve lost, we’re still holding a part of them with us — not in pain, but in honor.

If you’re hurting right now — like Lauren is — I hope you know you’re not alone. The sunrise shows up every day, whether we’re ready or not — a reminder that healing comes slowly, but surely… and never without love.

 

Stories in the Stillness

 

Stories in the Stillness

July 24, 2025
“We are often taught to look for the beauty in all things, so in finding it, the layman asks the philosopher while the philosopher asks the photographer.” ~ Criss Jami
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I stopped at the east end of Beach Boulevard this morning when I spotted a Yellow-Crowned Night Heron feeding in a tidal pool behind the seawall. As I turned to head back to my car, I noticed this old tree — the same one I photographed many years ago with this same sky behind it. Only then, I was walking with my little buddy, Cody. Hard to believe he has been gone nearly seven years now.

That tree reminds me of so many of us — reaching out for something, though we may not know quite what it is we’re trying to hold on to.

I tend to find meaning in the quiet things, the simple moments others often pass by. I like to imagine there’s a story in everything, waiting to be brought to life. Sometimes, I might be the only one who sees it, the only one who truly understands what the photo is saying. But that’s okay — because I know someday, my storytelling will come to an end. And I hope that through these pictures and the words I’ve left behind, my grandkids will learn to see the world the way Pawpaw did — one big canvas full of moments worth noticing, and stories waiting to be told.

Through the Tears, A Promise

Through the Tears, A Promise

July 23, 2025 – Wednesday

“So it’s true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.” ~ E.A. Bucchianeri

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Allen Dale lost his wife. Lane lost his mom. Lauren lost her mother-in-law. And Charlie, Caroline, and Mollie lost their MeMo — Cindy — yesterday.

There are no words that can take the pain away, but through the years I’ve learned: it does get better. In time, you remember something funny she said, or pick something up that reminds them of her, and a little smile will slip through the sadness. I believe that’s why God gave us memories.

Even now, all these years later, a memory of Dad or one of my grandparents will come to me out of the blue. And while there’s still a little ache, it also brings comfort — and sometimes even a chuckle.

I try to look at the bigger picture. That our time together isn’t measured in years or days, but in something far greater — a promise that one day, we’ll be together again, and this time it’ll be forever.

I keep thinking about that old hymn we used to sing at Whitesand Baptist: “When we all get to heaven, what a day of rejoicing that will be! When we all see Jesus, we'll sing and shout the victory!”

Yes, death hurts — it hurts deeply. But just beyond this sunrise, there’s a brighter morning waiting for us.

So go ahead and cry. Let yourself feel the loss. But know that you’re not alone. God has big shoulders, and He’s always waiting — ready to wrap you in His arms and wipe away every tear.

 

 

Where the Memories Bite

June 17, 2025
For the past two weeks, I’ve had the pleasure of spending time with two of my favorite fishing buddies—Charlie and Trent.

It’s hard to believe how much time has passed. For those who remember when Charlie was born—so small and full of wonder—well, take a look at him now, towering over me like a young man who's found his stride. Watching him grow into someone who still enjoys time with his Pawpaw is something special. He’s the one who took us out on the water, made sure we had what we needed, and—most importantly—put up with me. Thank you, Charlie. You don’t know how much that means.

Trent, I hope this trip was everything you hoped for. We may not have checked off every item on the list, but we did the one thing you wanted most: we fished. And that’s more than enough for me. I saw joy in your eyes and felt peace in mine.

We caught more than fish on those early mornings—we caught moments I’ll hold on to for a long time. Laughter in the boat. Quiet ripples on still water. Silhouettes against the sunrise. These are the things that stay with you.

Boys, thank you both for the gift of your time. Pawpaw’s heart is full.