A World in a Drop

A World in a Drop

September 25, 2026

This morning I noticed a little world hanging on the fence at The Point.

A line of tiny drops of water… and one little drop in particular caught my eye. It was holding the bright orange of the sunrise, and if you looked closely, you could even see the reflection of a tree inside it.

Just one little drop of water.

It made me think about the little worlds we each live in every day.

We can’t fix the whole world. We can’t change everything that’s happening around us. But we do have our own little world — the people we love, the things we do, the kindness we give, the smiles we share, and the little pieces of beauty we choose to notice.

Maybe that’s enough.

Maybe our job isn’t to change the whole world…

Maybe it’s simply to make our little corner of it a little brighter.

And if a tiny drop of water can hold a sunrise and a tree…

I’m thinking there’s probably a whole lot more in our little worlds than we sometimes realize. 😊

The Point, Pascagoula MS

 

Where Are We All Going?

 

Where Are We All Going?

This morning I stopped for a moment and watched the traffic at the intersection.

The light turned green and here they came…

One car, then another, then another — a long line of people headed to work, headed somewhere, headed to whatever the day had waiting for them.

Nobody seemed to be going very slowly.

It made me think about how much of our lives we spend hurrying to get somewhere.

We’re always looking at the clock.

Hurrying to work.

Hurrying home.

Hurrying to the next thing.

And sometimes I wonder…

Where are we all going in such a hurry?

Maybe every once in a while we need to miss the green light.

Take the long way.

Look out the window.

Notice the sunrise.

Or just sit still for a minute and remember that getting there isn’t the only part of living.

Of course… I say that as I watch everybody else race through the intersection. 😂

Maybe that’s why Alabama’s I’m in a Hurry was playing in my head when I took this picture.  

WHEN YOUR LIGHT GETS DIM

 

I saw this old lamp sitting beside the road this morning.

It had obviously seen better days.

Its shade was leaning to one side, its neck wasn’t quite as straight as it used to be, and I’m guessing its light probably wasn’t as bright as it once was.

And apparently, when your light gets dim and your head isn’t as straight as it used to be…

they set you out by the road to be picked up. 😟😂

I stood there looking at it and thought…

Well, that’s a little too close to home.

Because maybe getting older means our shades get a little crooked, our backs don’t stand quite as straight, and our light doesn’t shine quite as far down the road as it used to.

But here's the thing…

A lamp doesn’t have to be new to still give somebody light.

Sometimes an old lamp has spent years lighting somebody else’s way.

Maybe we’re not meant to be thrown away just because we’ve got a few bends, a few scratches, and a shade that doesn’t quite sit straight anymore.

Maybe we just need somebody to plug us in somewhere new. ❤️

And if nobody comes along to pick us up…

Well…

I know a guy with a camera who might take our picture. 😂📷

I Didn’t Know It Would Be the Last Time

April 09, 2026

I came across this chair sitting out in the yard, turned back toward the house like it was remembering something.

It made me stop.

There was nothing special about it at first glance—just an old chair, a quiet afternoon, and a long shadow stretching out across the grass. But something about the way it was facing… it felt like it was looking back instead of forward.

And that’s when the song came to me - "The Dance". 

Not the whole song—just a feeling I’ve known for a long time.

How many moments in life have we lived without realizing they were the last?

The last conversation.
The last visit.
The last time we sat and talked without any thought that one day we wouldn’t be able to.

If we had known… would we have held on a little longer?
Would we have paid closer attention?

Or maybe life doesn’t work that way for a reason.

Maybe the beauty is in not knowing.

Because even though some endings bring pain…
they also mean there was something worth holding onto in the first place.

Looking at that chair, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of gratitude.

For the moments I didn’t see coming.
For the memories that still linger.
For the dances I didn’t know would end.

And I realized something sitting there in that quiet yard…

Even knowing how it all turns out,
I wouldn’t trade those moments away.

Not for anything.

Because to miss the pain…
would mean I’d have to miss the dance.

 

A Visit on Mom’s Porch

 

A Visit on Mom’s Porch

March 05, 2026

Last night I had one of those dreams that stays with you.

I was standing on Mom’s porch — the same porch I played on when I was a little boy and the same one I sit on now when I go home to visit her. In the dream it looked exactly the way it does in real life. Even the TV cables were there. Every little detail was just right.

Dad and Grandpa were there, sitting together and working on fishing reels, just talking the way men do when their hands are busy. They looked younger, relaxed, like time had decided to give them a little break.

I didn’t arrive with any big moment or announcement. I just walked up onto the porch and saw them there. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. I passed by them the way I probably did a hundred times growing up.

For a little while we were all simply there together.

Nothing dramatic happened. Nobody said anything that shook the world. It was quiet, peaceful… almost ordinary. And maybe that’s what made it so special.

When I woke up, I didn’t feel sadness or longing. I felt peaceful and happy, like I had been given a small visit with people who helped shape my life.

Dreams can be strange things, but sometimes they feel like little windows opening for just a moment.

Last night felt like I stepped through one and stood again on Mom’s porch.

A Morning I Needed

 

A Morning I Needed

December 12, 2025

Today, just as I was getting ready to leave The Point, the man who bought ten of my calendars last week pulled in and waved me down. He told me he’d already started giving them out, and the people who received them were carried away with them — that they truly loved them. Then he looked me straight in the eye and said my work was good.

I don’t think he’ll ever know how much I needed to hear that. There’s something different about hearing it from someone who doesn’t know me, who doesn’t owe me anything, who’s seeing my work for the very first time. It felt honest, unexpected, and real — a kind of validation that sank deeper than I expected.

For just a moment, it felt like the world tapped me on the shoulder and said,
“See? You’re doing something that matters.”

Driving home, I felt lighter… almost proud of myself. It’s been a long time since I felt that way. Maybe I am turning a corner. Maybe I am going to make it after all.

A Day With My Girls

 

Today was one of those rare, easy, heart-full days I wish I could bottle up and keep forever. I spent the afternoon with McKenna and Caroline — just the three of us — and it did something good for my spirit.

We went shopping, laughing and wandering from makeup aisles to places to eat, with Noah joining us for lunch. I don’t get to see McKenna often since she lives in Texas, so just watching her and Caroline together — joking, talking, being cousins in that effortless way kids can — was a gift all its own.

We walked through the camera section for McKenna, because she’s wanting one for Christmas this year. Over in another aisle, Caroline was dreaming over iPads… she doesn’t know it yet, but hers is already waiting at home.

I even found a cross necklace for Mollie — the kind you pick up and immediately know it’s the one.

Somewhere in all of this, I realized something:
This is the first Christmas in years — many, many years — that I’m actually enjoying.

Maybe it’s the changes I’ve been working through, maybe it’s the simple act of being present, or maybe it’s just that love hits us in these small, ordinary moments… but whatever it is, today felt like a turning point. A good one.

And I’m grateful. Truly.

November 9, 2025

If I’ve Done My Work

Tonight I had a long talk with Lauren. We laughed, shared how our weekends had both felt heavy, and it reminded me how much a simple conversation can lift the weight off a tired heart. She and the girls came to church and sat with me this morning — and just having them there made the day feel a little brighter.

I was telling Lauren and Melissa that I wish I could order enough calendars to give everyone one. I sell them just to cover the cost, and the truth is, I’d gladly give my prints away if someone said they liked them. It’s not about the money — it’s about knowing that something I saw, something I felt, meant enough to someone else that they’d want to hang it in their home.

I may not know how others manage to sell their work, but that’s not really the point, is it? Tonight, I reminded myself that if I can make someone think, smile, laugh, or maybe even question — then I’ve done my work.

And maybe that’s what art is really for — not to be sold, but to be shared.

November 9, 2025
“Sometimes it is the quiet observer who sees the most.“ ~ Kathryn L. Nelson
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 The Quiet Measure of Worth

Some mornings arrive heavy — not because the light is missing, but because I forget how to see it.

Today was one of those mornings. The old whisper of doubt was louder than usual, telling me I’m not good enough, not seen, not there yet. I thought about the pictures that didn’t turn out the way I hoped, and how someone else’s work seemed to shine brighter than mine. I let that old ache creep in — the one that says maybe it’s time to give up.

But then I remembered something I already knew, deep down: art isn’t measured in sales, or likes, or compliments that come and go. It’s measured in moments — in the quiet places where connection happens. It’s in the stillness of a sunrise that makes someone pause long enough to breathe again. It’s in a picture of a cat yawning in the window light that makes someone smile without even knowing why.

I realized I’ve been given something far better than attention. I’ve been given eyes to see and a heart that feels. I’ve been given the chance to share small bits of peace with others, even on the mornings when I can’t find it for myself.

As I sat there watching the pelican, the water soft and silver in the first light, I realized that maybe I’m like him — just waiting, watching, still showing up even when the sky feels heavy. The truth is, I don’t need to outshine anyone. I just need to keep noticing, keep creating, keep being present.

Because sometimes the quiet observer really does see the most.

And today, that’s enough for me.
The Point, Pascagoula 

 

Hands That Know the Water

November 6, 2025

“Less is more.” ~ Ludwig Mies van der Rohe

I’ve learned that sometimes what you don’t show in a picture can tell the story best.

This morning, it wasn’t the man’s face that caught my attention — it was his hands. The way he held the reel told me everything I needed to know. You could see years of patience and practice written in those lines.

I like to think those hands have known both calm mornings and stubborn fish, tangled lines and quiet victories. There’s a peace that comes from time spent near the water, and somehow his hands carried all of that in them.

Maybe that’s what photography is really about for me — seeing the meaning tucked into the smallest details. A hand. A shadow. A moment that never comes again.

River Park, Pascagoula, MS

 

“The Light Comes Back”
November 01, 2025 - Saturday

There was a time not too long ago when the mornings felt heavy — when even getting out of bed came with a little rush of worry. I wondered if that light I’d chased for so many years had finally slipped beyond my reach.

But the thing about the sun is… it always finds a way back. Slowly, quietly, without fanfare — the light returns.

These days, I’m feeling it again. The mornings don’t scare me anymore. I’m taking the kids to school, laughing with my grandsons, and finding pictures everywhere I look. Even my little cat, Doodle, has become a muse — full of energy and surprises, reminding me that life is meant to be played with.

I don’t take any of it for granted — the calm mornings, the laughter, or the simple peace of feeling alive again.

So here’s to the light — the one out there on the horizon and the one that comes back inside us, when we least expect it. 🌅

 

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.