There’s an internal battle that I’ve struggled with, ever since I began my World Race journey.
I have had constant fears of living my Race from behind my camera lens, and not allowing myself to be present in ministry, or the fun shenanigans that we as Racers get ourselves into, because I thought I may be too concerned with getting a picture of a particular event, rather than enjoying it.
Thankfully, for the most part, this has not been a significant issue in my life. I feel like I’ve been able to find a healthy balance between being able to enjoy a moment, while at the same time allowing myself to capture that moment. I always hope to be able to look back and enjoy pictures of my life on the Race, while using that imagery as a way for others to have a glimpse into my journey.
I was tasked with wrestling pigs in Albania.
I had the privilege to wrangle horses in Bulgaria.
I was blessed with a chance to baptize new believers in India.
I had the pleasure of bungee jumping in the Himalayas.
I was granted the honor of showing love to the children of Swaziland.
And I had the joy of spending manistry month in the mountains of Lesotho.
I’m thankful for each and every one of these experiences, along with the countless other memories that I’ll cherish from my first 11 months on the World Race, as well as my five months as a squad leader.
And it gives me joy to know that I could share those experiences with my family and supporters at home, as well as give others a glimpse into the life of a World Racer through the pictures and video that I’ve collected over the last year and a half.
I know that I will always cherish the tangible memories that I have collected, and I hope that the other members of R and L squad will be able to do the same through those forms of media.
However, I think I always knew that a moment would come on the Race that I wanted to keep just for myself.
In Cambodia, that day finally came; when I had my camera at my side, battery fully charged and memory card with plenty of space. Yet I chose to allow myself a moment of selfishness and keep this image all to myself.
I was spending my first half of the month with Team Burning Joy, and on one of our first days in Sisophoan, we traveled to some local houses to give encouragement to the non-Christian family members that had connections to our local congregation.
Our first visit was to an elderly man who spoke decent English. He had lived in Sisophoan or Phnom Penh for the majority of his life, and had endured Cambodia’s nationwide struggle in the late 1970’s, while Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge were in power.
He told us stories about what his life was like during the blood-soaked reign of the communist dictatorship: how he struggled every day for food, and was forced to watch many of his friends be dragged away by the police, never to be seen again.
After telling some stories from his life, he informed us that in his free time, he likes to play the flute, and naturally he wanted to show off some of his skills for the lovely American/Canadian woman (…and myself I guess) that were seated in his humble living room.
He proceeded to play for us some of his favorite tunes, ranging from lullabies and love songs to anthems of patriotism and poetry.
He played for several minutes, and on a few occasions I had an urge to take my camera out of its case and start shooting some video, or snap a few pictures to remember this moment.
But at one point I realized that this was a moment in my life that I would never allow myself to forget. The beauty of this moment was enough to engrain itself in my brain for as long as my mental capacity holds up.
The 6 of us in that room had the distinction of hearing this man’s heart-wrenching life story, and listening to the pain in his voice as he told of friends long lost, while others, sadly, will remain long forgotten. I knew that no quantifiable amount of GB on a memory card could possibly contain this moment, and whether I tried to shoot on a Polaroid or a Canon 1D, nothing would truly capture what I was witnessing right in front of me.
There’s no strong wrap-up for this story. Communication with this man was limited, thanks to a language barrier, and the unceasing Buddhist chants that were being broadcasted to the village.
As we were leaving, we asked if we could pray for him, and as Buddhists often do, he politely declined.
We shared some scripture with him, and it’s possible that one day his grandson will be the catalyst that brings him to Christ. We truly won’t know until we reach the kingdom, and God brings up our interaction with this man on the heavenly jumbo-tron.
In all likelihood, none of us will ever see this man again, but at the very least, I can allow myself to look back on this moment as one mental image that I can enjoy all to myself.
As a photographer, it seems unnatural to tell people that their memory is the best camera at their disposal, but I hope everyone finds that moment in life that couldn’t possibly make a more perfect picture, yet couldn’t be a better time to leave your camera at your side.
