art, creativity, grief, Kairos, landscape, living forward, memories, Photograph by Ken Gehle, Photograph by Tamara Beachum, Photography, widow
On August 25, 1916, President Woodrow Wilson signed the act creating the National Park Service. This year the parks will celebrate their centennial. The National Parks have been and continue to be important places for our family. We have made memories that will last a lifetime in these special places, some beautiful and some heart-wrenching. None of them would I trade. For me they are places of healing and joy. Ken and I took a rare solo vacation to Death Valley National Park for his 44th birthday. He and the kids spent time in Cades Cove of the Great Smokey National Park while I had to stay home to work. I have few regrets, that I didn’t go with them is one. We celebrated remission with a two week tour of Utah and Arizona. Ken made some of the most spectacular landscape photos of his career. We spent what would turn out to be our last family Spring Break at the Cumberland Island National Seashore. We had planned to do an RV trip to Yosemite the following summer. We scattered Ken’s ashes there instead. Half Dome is his monument. Glacier National Park was the first park I explored while learning how to live forward after such a devastating loss. Grand Teton was the amazing location of my second wedding when I found love again. My daughter spent three summers in neighboring Yellowstone National Park. She now lives in Grand Canyon National Park, just steps from the south rim. These places are precious to us. I think Ken’s love for the parks shines through in the images he created. I...
Creative Grief Tool, gratitude, Kairos, landscape, memories, National Parks, Photograph by Ken Gehle, Photograph by Tamara Beachum, Photography, prayer, quest, tool
“Let’s go to Death Valley,” he said. This was in response to my question about where we should go for my husband’s forty-fourth birthday and our first vacation away from our two small children in several years. I laughed, “No, really where do you want to go?” “Death Valley!” he grinned looking over the top of his glasses and that’s when I knew he was serious. Death Valley National Park is a place of odd beauty. Compared to what I perceived as the lush landscape of the Southeast, most of the vistas in Death Valley could best be described as simply, brown. To an inexperienced eye, such as mine, the ridiculously vivid blue sky was met only by tones of sepia. All the same, once Ken had convinced me to be there, I found it a place full of wonders I was eager to experience. We hiked and explored everywhere: salt flats, enormous sand dunes, a salt creek, abandoned mines, steep trails leading to surreal rock formations and even a ghost town. After days of exploring the park mostly at sunrise and sunset a curious thing happened, my eyes adjusted. One evening Ken set up for a shot in an area of the park known as the Artist’s Palette. Our trip was almost over. Faint hues of white, verdigris and deep red were visible on the range in front of us. As the sun approached the horizon behind us the colors of the arid earth began to reveal themselves. The mountainside was luminous with yellow, green, blue and even purple. The variety, there all along, was subdued and unappreciated...
grief, Kairos, Photograph by Ken Gehle, prayer, spiritual
I have a confession. I’m a life-long Presbyterian who went to Catholic school (that’s not the confession but probably enough to make one crazy right there.) I am currently an elder in my church which would make my grandparents bust with pride. My grandfather was a stalwart Presbyterian church elder and my grandmother was the quintessential church lady and official silver communion plate polisher. Not a meal was taken in their house without grace spoken before it. Sandwich over the sink? Say grace. So here it is: I don’t know how to pray. My grandfather and father were the official family grace sayers and used a standard prayer. Check. In school we had the rote memorization of the rosary prayers. Done. None of those prayers felt like a personal conversation with God though. Don’t get me wrong, I have spoken to God quite a bit in the last five years but I’m not sure begging counts as prayer. My prayers sound a lot like wishes to my ears: that my husband would live, that my father would live and before that that my grandfather would live at least long enough to meet the great-grandchild I carried. He did not. My timing is off. The futility of when I pray has led me not to do it so much. It seems I’m always asking for the thing I so desperately desire after the conclusion has already been reached. “Please let this test be clean,” I pleaded. Too late, the cancer was growing. The test was just there to show the foregone conclusion. This was the case with my father. I...
Kairos, Photograph by Ken Gehle, Wordless Wednesday
All of the Wordless Wednesday images are available as fine art prints. See the details...
accepting new love, grief, Kairos, Motivational poster, moving forward, openness, Photograph by Tamara Beachum
I flipped through a magazine while my son sat in the barber’s chair getting a back-to-school trim. A photo of a woman standing on top of a mountain peak, arms outstretched, with her body backlit by the sun caught my eye. She was clearly experiencing a moment of kairos time. The first line told me this was also a story of loss. The subject of the article, Jen Lacey, had made the difficult decision to have her leg amputated after it failed to heal properly from an accident. Coming to the end of the piece I realized that, substituting a few words, I could have written the same. “It’s hard to be a [widow]; I won’t sugarcoat it. But every day, I get more used to my [new life], and sometimes I even forget it’s there. You might think I’d dread having strangers ask questions, but I don’t mind—some of them are in a situation like I was, [pre-widowhood], and I can offer advice. Lately I’ve been mentoring new [widows] and hosting [widow] support groups, and it’s allowed me to help people, which is what I’ve always loved to do… The best part: I wake up every day with hope…” I’m not saying I understand what it’s like to be an amputee – clearly I don’t – but this is the closest analogy I can think of to explain what life feels like as a widow. A part of me was severed when Ken died. We spent our young adult lives in each other’s orbit and grew into maturity together. We became parents and experienced all of those firsts...
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