About a week ago I got back from a trip in Ghana. I was there for a small mission trip with my church. This mission trip was not the kind where we built houses and such—many people thought that was the kind of trip it was. The intention was to connect with a church we had been partnered with, but hadn’t visited due to obvious geographical barriers. I felt rather spiritually cold during this trip for whatever reason, like everything was too big to digest at once. Like a big Thanksgiving feast was in front of me and I was only letting myself nibble on the appetizers. Otherwise, I’d pass out from the meal before it began. I come back home with a few images that hopefully can capture a fraction of the story, and make this thing easier to digest.

A woman, and her son, grieving over her late husband.

This is the first image I share because it was one of the more moving moments of the trip. We’re, to me, in the middle of nowhere, inside a mud hut in this village. We’ve been in a couple mud huts by this point of the trip, but this one housed a family who had just lost a loved one. The chief of the tribe, if my memory isn’t failing me. Pastor Austin and Pastor Ronnie begin to console her, Ronnie able to speak to her thanks to the man translating next to us. We’re seated in front of her, on our knees. I remember the struggle of trying to find a comfortable position to kneel in, then realizing the silly weight of that annoyance versus the weight on the child in front of me.

Hidden in the shadow besides the mother is her child. The shadow in the photograph provides him with privacy, but when I locked eyes with him there was a teary layer of water in his eyes. He was sad, the weight of his grief still fresh. The woman continued to nod as Austin spoke words of encouragement to her. Now throughout this whole trip we had seen mainly children and elders. Soon her older son walks into the mud hut. He couldn’t have been too far in age from Elijah and I. He also began to tear up as Austin encouraged him through his time of grief. I don’t remember exactly what Austin said, but I remember him somehow making this moment feel glorious and uplifting in the name of the Lord. Locking eyes with the guy it felt like being a part of a moment I shouldn’t have been (like with many of these moments). I was watching him right there become a man. He felt like a relatable figure given the similarity in age. Hopefully blessings come to them.

Portrait of a chief.

Austin joked that he’s going to need these photos of chiefs for when their funeral comes around. I remember when we first heard that we were going to meet chiefs in the first place. I had no idea what to imagine, what it would be like. Various flashes of images entered my head, but I just couldn't picture all of it. What a chief would wear, what his palace looked like, what the interaction would be like. It’s nice to be able to put actual images to these descriptions now, getting a slice of this very different but very beautiful sample of African culture.

This chief in particular was the first one we met. I remember us first walking in—Elijah looked back at me as Ronnie and Randy walked in almost saying this is it. Our heads slightly bowed. They said shoes can be kept on. And then we sat down on animal skins, slightly angled to the righthand side of the chief. His translator spoke (paraphrasing): We are blessed to welcome you here today and that God has allowed us to meet. Something like that. Austin introduces us. Then Ronnie speaks. It’s cool watching Ronnie step up to the plate knowing that he is an introvert. Knowing that maybe he’s a little bit nervous. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say. But words come out. They always do.

After they exchange, and we prepare to exit to continue to the rest of the village, I knew I had to get a portrait. Seeing that Austin asked for permission from the chief to pray I wasn't going to do my classic street photographer thing and silently grab a photo. I asked if I could. Permission was granted. As my fingers scrolled the wheels on my camera, shifting the settings to get the exposure just right, I felt like many portraits that I had been taking over the years had prepped me for this one. I still messed up, as the shutter was set to a disastrous 1/4, but we make do.

A silly girl, amongst many other silly children.

The children in these various tribes/villages that we visited had one thing in common: they were all so incredibly joyous. Our truck would pull into the village and these kids would come out in hordes. Just dozens of ‘em, running out to us. I remember us walking around this village with what felt like hundreds of children following us wherever we went. The children would come up and grab our hands. Now given there was so many of them it got to the point there was one child per finger. My selfish self had my hands on the camera, but that didn’t stop them from connecting.

A child that stood out is that one in the striped shirt and golden earrings. The context to this story is that Elijah is a silly fellow. Out of the many silly things he’d do, throughout the week he’d sometimes make a specific funny face at me. At the risk of sounding obscene, he’d make this gesture where he’d stick his tongue out and swing it side to side. Why I bring this up is that while holding his hand one of his fingers, this girl looked up at him and made the exact same face. Unprompted. Without Elijah ever doing it. Elijah had found himself a fellow jokester. This is them two pictured (with another girl who joined in):

To round out this short essay, I’ll leave here a few other images that stood out to me from the week spent in Ghana. I hope the experiences I had make some level of impact on the way I live.

We handed out candy at the villages. The boy on the left is seen enjoying his piece.

These kids are pictured watching a well getting drilled. They were able to hit water, forming one of Ronnie’s favorite moments of the trip. They were able to hit water.

This woman is one of the cooks of the village. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but she was laughing at how many pictures Elijah and I took of her. She smiled in every single one.

I don’t remember the significance of the massive tree behind these children, but I remember it was significant.

A small piece of exposition: mud huts in the background, clothes being dried, a child being carried, and another holding on to Ronnie’s hand.

I never know how to really answer these questions. There are acceptable default answers. I’m doing good! How are you? Essentially a non-answer—it might be true, but does it really say anything? The unspoken social contract to ask and respond is not necessarily the most burdensome thing in the world. There is something sweet about being polite. And hey, even someone like me is being genuine and sincere saying these phrases. Nonetheless, they’re often meaningless, in a way. Beyond the surface, it’s even worse. To talk about my honest, soul-bearing thoughts. Good luck. Bring a pick-axe and some drilling equipment. You’ll need time to wear down the walls.

All of this is quite ironic, and perhaps fitting, to my truest goals and aspirations. I feel comfortable typing into the void now, at least. Being some level of artist requires bearing your soul in front of the whole world. To be stripped down naked not only taking off every article of clothing you over-spent on (or in my case the clothing your parents bought you), but to be stripped down taking off that thin, sensitive layer of skin on your body. All the way beneath the surface. That is horrifying.

At church I lead a worship song every week, give or take. The church is a sacred place. It is the place I feel very comfortable in. There is welcome, there is love. It is the place where we come gather to worship our God. Yet, even in a space where none of the focus is on me (it shouldn’t be), I feel incredibly naked on stage. It’s like I’ve been ordered to go up there, take my clothes off, run around, and yell in a high-pitched squeal. Obviously that isn’t what I do, but to some extent the weight sometimes is that crushing. I know it’s all in my head, a psychological torment placed only to the fraction of myself that is addicted to sorrow even with the things that I love and enjoy most. But yes, the voices are there.

This tension of vulnerability for me is not just on my social life but on the very craft that I care about most. I want to do so many things. There is too much to count. I’d love to direct feature films, working with talented artists and technicians to bring together experiences that move people. I’d love to produce music with soul-shredding melodies and grooves that make the divine feel that much closer to everyone in the room, even for a moment. There are many other random side quests I’d love to explore, all pointing to one thing: I want to make cool stuff. I like cool stuff.

The path to such a goal is very tricky. It is the easiest time in the history of the planet to achieve such a goal. Some kid with an iPhone (I say, like I don’t have one) is achieving far greater things than everything I ever have combined. Access is easier than ever. The internet, at least in all the success story bias we’re exposed to, is like a portal to infinite opportunity. Play it wrong enough and it becomes a slot machine. The Algorithm the holy idol we bow down to worship, bending to its every command. Some of us calling it the meta but if you obey it can lead you to riches! Make sure you start the video with a hook and title your media with big words in all caps! This of course is a separate entry on its own, but point is: even though it feels like it should be the easiest it still is a rocky road to navigate. The main tension going back to vulnerability.

My immediate instinct is that I’d rather not share who I am. Why I’m oversharing on the internet again I don’t know why I’m compelled to. It’s embarrassing. The existence of vulnerability should be banned across the nations. Let us ban all expression, a daily limit on jokes and compliments and humanity. I’m just kidding of course but it’s true—I’d rather live alone. The Old Man at the Cabin. He’s who I aspire to be. The Old Man at the Cabin is the man I envision when I die.

I’ve enjoyed telling this idea to a couple of my friends.

When I imagine my death, I imagine the following image. Out in the middle of nowhere. A forest, trees everywhere. The sun sets. My cabin is on the hill overseeing the lake. On that lake is me in my little boat. I’m old and rugged and quiet. Maybe a beard (I’m convinced at this age of writing that I will never be capable of growing, nonetheless in this dream I have one). I’m on the lake in my creaky little boat, watching the sun fall. I have one thing on me: my guitar. I could take a harmonica, too. I’m just out, alone, singing on my old guitar with my simple folk chords. I’m strummin’ and hummin’. It’s peaceful. As I sing my little folk songs to myself surrounded by the trees I slowly drift away. I perish, doing what I love most in this world.

That is the Old Man at the Cabin.

In order to reach the Old Man at the Cabin I feel as thought I need to whip myself into glory and greatness. In many ways I’m very proud of the progress I’ve made. There was once a day I could not sing very well, could not play piano, could not play guitar, could not write songs, could not do those things and whatever little things I’ve learned in whatever other mediums. I should remind myself the glory only goes to the God above as I write, but aside that point the internal dialogue that I have in my head sounds different. I am terrified of being seen. Being vulnerable. It has slowed me down in doing so many of those things that I would like to do before I die.

In many ways I am already the Old Man at the Cabin. I carve out my own moments of peace, like I do as I type into the vast void. But I imagine that the old man was fearless in his pursuits all the way up to his last breaths. After all, he knew that one day this moment would come. He’d seen it before. It didn’t even matter if one day long ago he ran around on a stage naked while yelling in a high-pitch squeal. He didn’t have to. He was the Old Man at the Cabin.