A few years ago, a friend asked me to photograph her wedding. I remember how nervous I was, how I planned almost a year in advance with her, getting advice from many mentors along the way, and praying that I’d be able to provide images for her that would last a lifetime. Prayer, prayer prayer, and lots of prayer. That day, I felt like adrenaline, and good feelings, and especially love kept me going. I didn’t even feel exhausted when the evening ended. To this day, I still feel that way. When my equipment’s packed up and I’m hugging the bride and groom and wishing them well on their honeymoon. Love keeps me going.

Truth be told, weddings are my favorite moment in life to photograph. I get to meet such amazing couples, hear their story, and get challenged to document their love story. No two stories are alike.

I always pray before I get out of the car and lug my equipment to where the bride is getting ready, that I will be able to use a talent that God has blessed me with, to help the couple always remember their day. Prayer, prayer, prayer, and more prayer.

Here are some of my favorites along the journey…

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There’s a saying I believe in: if you do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life. My ‘work’ has been a journey of love stories. Love keeps me going. My only hope is that the journey continues. Prayerfully, of course.

There are too many happy moments in our lives, fueled by love, to dwell on the less than savory ones.

I hope love keeps you all going as well.

It is sometimes difficult to write from a place of grief, so instead I will write from a place where the memories are still as visceral, but definitely not somber.

My earliest memory ever involved Uncle Robert. I don’t remember exactly how old I was. Definitely not old enough to form explicit memories, for all of you Psych nerds out there, and I am amazed at how vivid this memory is.

I remember crawling, unable to walk, across a dark carpet in a blue terry onesie, with a Winnie-the-Pooh appliqué sewn on the chest. He used to live with my family, and I remember being curious about what went on in his room, this big tall man that looked like my Daddy but not quite. I would crawl to his door, and peek underneath the crack, aching to see what was going on. Often times, I would see his feet in his shoes, shuffling about, and then sometimes I’d see nothing. Sometimes, I would stick my little fingers underneath the doorjamb and wiggle them, because well, that’s what babies do.

One fateful day, my peeking adventures came to an end. I saw the shoes (always polished, always clean shoes), coming towards the door. Perhaps in my baby mind, I didn’t yet know to back away. The door suddenly swung open, and I looked up to see a towering figure, with a face like my Daddy’s, and beady eyes staring down at me. A voice boomed ‘WHATAREYOUDOINNNNNNNNG?” with a huge grin and thunderous laughter. Terrified, I scurried away as fast as I could crawl to my parents, who in turn laughed at me.

In later years, Uncle Robert was nomadic, but a constant presence in our lives, if that makes sense. He would call a day or so in advance, and show up on our doorstep. He always rode in style, be it a tattered Lincoln, or a beat up Cutlass. Sure, the leather seats were worn well, a few dusty Bibles sat on the back dash, and a cluster of tattered and faded air fresheners dangled from the rearview mirror, but his vehicle of choice was always clean. Uncle Robert always was a sharp dresser. His pants were creased to break at the top of his polished shoes. He always wore a hat, usually a fedora with the black ribbon, tilted to the side, and aviator shades or sunglasses with amber lenses. He was sharp, undoubtedly sharp, the birth, life, and legacy of the cool.

He and my father shared such a deep bond. Without getting into too much detail, my father and uncle left home at a very early age, but they were always together. My uncle always looked out for his baby brother. Even miles apart, sometimes continents apart, my uncle found a way to keep in touch with all of his siblings. To this day, this is how my extended family communicates.  Uncle Robert had a knack for calling at odd hours of the morning, and playing a musical intro (presumably some Otis Redding, or Sam Cooke), before saying his hellos.

My uncle was not a perfect man. But what I think struck me, and I’m sure, many others in my family was that he was unapologetic for who he was. He was the definition of being genuine.

A week ago, God called him home. When my dad called me to deliver the news, I could not process it. It was finals week, I was in my usual form (attached at the hip to the large format printer), and I could not process it.  He had called my dad a few days before, and said he was ready to go. He had made his peace with JC.

It is hard to imagine someone with such a presence, such a personality, not being around anymore to teach you things, to make you laugh, but I’m so thankful, for the memories, of him. Uncle Robert always wanted a family reunion to happen, and although it was in the shadow of such a somber occasion (for us, because I know he is with God), he got what he wanted.  My father, brother, and I flew to Belleville, right outside of St. Louis, and had an amazing time. We met so many members of our extended family and laughed, laughed so hard until our bellies ached, as we all remembered Robert James Hawthorne. And oh, how his presence is indelible in so many of our memories. That’s how you celebrate a life. He was the birth, life, and legacy of the cool.

Uncle Robert, Uncle Tiny, Uncle T, will be missed on this earth, but I know where he’s gone, and I find comfort in that.