We stood on the solid ground, looking up at the flight of rickety stairs waiting to be climbed. She halfway rolled her eyes, trying to convince him she didn’t really want to climb up there in her heels.

Oh, she convinced him alright. He knew full well that she was stepping out of her comfort zone. That she didn’t want to climb to the rooftop. That her feet were much much happier on the solid concrete. But he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and grinned down at her: “C’mon. It’ll be fun!”

Kathryn giggled. Maybe a little nervously. The stairs still weren’t her favorite. But she was next to her favorite man. And that was all that mattered. Truly. He was by her side. He was taking care of her. And they were going to have an adventure.

So she walked up the stairs.

And rickety they were.

Maybe a little dangerous.

And most definitely not a normal Saturday afternoon activity.

But ohhh. It was fun. And the view from up top? So worth it.

And that is Kathryn and Micah.  Enjoying the little experiences along the way, making big memories out of small moments. Laughing their way through life.

Micah doesn’t have to think long about how to describe why he loves Kathryn. Its easy.
Kathryn? Well, there’s no one like Micah. No one.

And they’re getting married.

A few months ago, I very trepidatiously entered into my first series of newborn shoots.
I can photograph weddings — its all about the bride.
I can photograph couples in love — they’re in looove. Duh.
I can photograph Seniors — they’re ridiculously fun.
I can photograph children — all it takes is a few funny faces and goofy jokes.

But babies?

Babies scared me.

I even said — not too terribly long ago — that I wouldn’t take infant portraits until I became a mom myself and knew how to interact with a baby.

But lemme tell you.

Babies are fun.

Especially Alivia and her ridiculously adorable bows and incredibly dramatic expressions.

Check out this attitude:  Eep!

No smile has ever been that big. No joy ever that full. After years and years of waiting patiently, Zachary and Annie were joyfully – but just a tad impatiently – waiting for the moment to see one another on their wedding day. Annie had been watching out the window, just for a glimpse of her man. She would stand at the corner of the glass and peer out, that smile of hers ever-present. As she’d catch a glimpse, the smile (somehow) became bigger and the joy fuller. She’d settle back into the moment of fun with her girls, glad to know he was so close.

Zachary and Annie met before high school. He was twelve and he was the new boy in Sunday School; of course 11-year-old Annie would have a crush on him, right? But Annie didn’t know that the new boy also had a pretty incredible crush on her. Only it wasn’t just a crush. It was deeper and bigger than that. It was the beginning of a friendship that turned into a courtship that turned into an engagement that turned into a wedding day full of smiles and love.

She stood at the top of the stairs, coming to see her man.

He stood at the foot of the stairs, eyes closed until she told him she was ready.

She giggled.  Zachary stood patiently.

The beauty was overwhelming. I wept.

And there they were. Annie and Zachary. Ten years after their first meeting, seeing one another on their wedding day. The joy in that room was tangible.

bridal party

A typical wedding day starts early, full of activity. Hopefully it involves a beautiful sunrise, a delightfully leisurely breakfast, and then a bustle of fun as guests arrive and the day continues. But not many wedding days start 9000 miles from home. Except this one.

It was Christmas Eve back in the United States. Families were enjoying dinner together. Children were counting down the moments until Santa’s arrival. Churches prepared for the candlight service. Nine thousand miles away, it was Christmas morning and we drank fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice and started a wedding morning in Vietnam.

Ben and Hien have been married for a year. They met at church in Greensboro (Hien came to America to study), they hit it off, became fast friends, and the rest is – as they say – history. Hien has been studying in North Carolina for five years and we’ve been planning for months for her first trip home, her traditional wedding ceremony . . . our adventure in Vietnam.

Now, before we jump into the photos, you have to understand that a Vietnamese wedding ceremony is vastly unlike an American ceremony. So unfamiliar were the customs and traditions, I’m not even sure I can properly describe what went on during the day.  It probably didn’t help that everything happened in a completely unfamiliar language and I was just trying to keep up with the videographer – at least he spoke the language (loudly) and knew what was going to happen next; I became his shadow and hoped I didn’t annoy him.

(iPhone and motorbike. who needs anything else?)

(these beautiful flowers were handmade by the incredibly talented Ngoc; handmade, I tell you!)

The ceremony itself begins at the groom’s home. Since Ben is twice the height of any Vietnamese in the country and his relatives were 9,000 miles away, his side of the ceremony took place at Hien’s grandmother’s home. First, a tribute to the ancestors, then an unveiling of the gifts, then the procession to the bride’s home.

Once at the bride’s home (please take note of the incredible archway — hand made out of banana leaves!), the groom’s friends very solemnly present to the bride’s friends their gifts while the groom looks on.

The eldest member of the bride’s family surveys the gifts, deems them acceptable (or unacceptable) and then welcomes the group into the bride’s parents’ home where the ceremony continues.

After even more inspection of the gifts, the mother disappears from the solemn table and returns with her daughter – the bride – and officially presents her to the groom.

And then it was over. And the party began.

Now, you have to understand: when these people party, they PART-AY!

The reception began with a concert and a dance before the grand reveal: at exactly the right moment, the groom stepped out from behind the stage and walked down the catwalk toward his bride.

As the music swelled, Ben and Hien stopped on cue — never dreaming they were going to be serenaded with fireworks!

The typical – universal – traditions were made unique by the confetti, the Christmas songs, and the dancing singers.  (Please also note the dancing Santas who sprayed canned snow into the air.)

And that was that. The Vietnamese ceremony of Ben and Hien.

Wedding, round two: complete.

I sat on the motorbike, holding on for dear life; one hand gripped her jacket and the other clung to the metal grip behind me. Her driving was impeccable – no danger there – but we were surrounded by hundreds (thousands?) of very erratic drivers, all powering their motorbikes through the narrow streets, and all angling for the front position at each stoplight. Ngoc’s driving wasn’t the problem – everyone else left me afraid for my life (or at least my sanity).

But as she drove us through the streets of My Tho in Southern Vietnam, masterfully navigating the streets and keeping us clear from the chaos all around us, my awe of her grew. And grew. And grew.

Not only is this (very beautiful) young lady fluent in at least two languages (English and Vietnamese; I can hardly even handle ONE), she’s also an entrepreneur, a hard working employee, a devoted sister, and – oh yes – a talented driver. She sells the most adorable dresses and handbags. She makes the most amazing paper flowers (SO amazing I thought she was kidding when she said she’d made it). And she has the sweetest smile.

And have I mentioned she’s beautiful?

We sat on the front porch, safely back in the comfort of my home-away-from-home watching the world go by, and I kept peppering her with questions. Culture. Language. Climate. Wedding. Life. Our worlds aligned. Normally 9000 miles apart, we sat side by side. United by our friend Hien, our mutual desire to create beautiful photographs, and a cup of green tea, I made a friend.

So, Ngoc, even though I had the hardest time pronouncing your name, and even though we’re again separated by 9000 miles, and even though I asked you to do the weirdest things during your photoshoot, I hope you know how much I truly and fully enjoyed getting to know you.

You’re beautiful, my friend.  

She handed her ticket to the bored high schooler. He didn’t really want to be there. A fair’s a fair, said his eyes. And too many enthusiastic, sugar crazed individuals were making his life miserable. But at least it was a paycheck, even if it was tedious work.

She ignored his rude cynicism and bounced into the House of Mirrors, dragging her man behind her. They giggled and teased, making their way through the maze. Quite successfully, too. I was impressed. But then a ker-thump and a groan … the little boy in front of them had run into the glass.  Once they found out the chap was alright, they laughed so hard even the jaded employee had to smirk at their fun.

Just another night at the Dixie Classic Fair.

I sat at the kitchen table, practically squatting on a four legged stool that was designed for a person much smaller than me. My fingers – although well practiced after two weeks in the country – still failed me now (as they occasionally did) and I dropped my chopstick full of bamboo back on the serving plate. I tried again. Twisting the chopstick 45 degrees to use gravity in my favor, I managed to get the vegetable to my own bowl and then began the challenge of getting it to my mouth. Somethings are no trouble for my chopsticks, and somethings just don’t want to be eaten. Or maybe that’s just my stomach telling me no more pig brain. Subliminal messages and all that.

The conversation had been swirling around me, no one paying attention to the white girl with chopsticks as their melodic language floated in one ear and out the other. Literally. I had no idea what they were saying. Never do, really. Sometimes the sign language and facial expressions and jabbing fingers can fill in what the words fail to articulate, but not for full blown dinner conversation.

I dropped another bamboo and heard the pause almost as loudly as I heard the soggy sprout hit the table.

Every set of eyes looked at me, shocked. I could hear it in the silence coming from several directions: “She was doing so well! I even complimented her on her chopstick skills!” “I thought she was one of us! I guess I was wrong.”

I gave the six pairs of eyes a dramatic shrug, flailing my chopsticks in the air and losing control of them completely. No food was lost in the gesture, but I’m pretty sure I smacked my neighbor’s hair with my used sticks. So much for etiquette. I’m pretty sure that broke another rule, too. Gesturing with chopsticks probably isn’t allowed.

An exaggerated eye roll and smirk finished off my moment in the spotlight. As the table started shaking with laughter and the Vietnamese swirled toward me in unknown sentences, I willed that bamboo off the table.

This time, I was successful. The bamboo was on my stick and in my mouth before I could say Ho Chih Minh.

And – better yet – the table forgot me again.

Sitting awkwardly while a group talks over and around and through me while watching people eat food my culture would never dream of relishing, I am realizing again how small I am.

In my little American bubble, in my little uni-lingual world, in my comfortably posh existence, I forget reality: I am one little speck on one little planet in one little galaxy.

And as I get smaller with each travel adventure, my God gets bigger. He doesn’t just exist in my little corner of the world, He’s big enough to love the WHOLE world.

That mean’s He’s BIG.

Even though there’s not even a remote chance I’ll see snow this Christmas,  while I’m in a tropical location shooting a wedding in a foreign language, I hope your Christmas is cold and snowy and full of family.

I wake to the village roosters echoing their morning cry up and down the street. They never stop crowing, really.  Or if they do, its for only an hour at 2am. But the cock-a-doodle-doos are more prolific in the wee hours of the morning.

At 5am the streets are already populated. A boat chugs by, its engine’s thump-thump-thump a sharp harmony to the roosters. A bicycle brakes, desperately trying to avoid the dog that’s run out in the road. Its brakes are worn, unoiled. A dog yelps. A child laughs. A motorcycle accelerates across the bridge, its worn tires rhythmically hitting the uneven planks. The morning routine is starting to sound like an orchestrated concert.

I rolled over, trying to remember the day. Its not easy. All these days in a foreign land have run together. I’ve settled into a routine: a routine of non-routine. It could be Christmas Day for all I’d know.

I paused. Thinking.

Well well. Its  Christmas Eve.

Instead of Christmas lights and nativity scenes and hot chocolate and comfort food, its a day of palm trees and motorbikes  and coconut milk and chicken soup (with the feet, of course; toenails are the delicacy of the day).

The rhythm of the morning is suddenly meaningful, a loud reminder that I’m in a foreign land to celebrate the birth of my Savior. I might not be in my comfort zone with family surrounding me and favorite foods to eat, but neither was He – all those years ago. I get motorcycles and roosters and diesel tug boats, He woke to cattle and sheep and shepherds.

I might not find any of this normal, and maybe its even a little odd, and part of me desperately longs to go home. But that’s what is going to make this the most amazing Christmas ever. In a very small but very tangible way, this is what Christmas morning is all  about.

(see? Christmas trees do exist in Vietnam)

Her front wheel wobbled the teeniest bit as she made the sharp turn off the dusty asphalt and onto the dirt path. The drop off was always the same – and it always caught her off guard. Her long white ao dai danced behind her as she hopped off the bike and scampered into her sister’s shop.

Surprisingly, the shop was full. Poor sister hadn’t seen a lot of customers lately. No one really knew why, as her skills with hair and nails were the best in the little village nestled just outside the bustling city of My Tho.

Duyen stopped short. These weren’t just any customers.

Sitting in the salon chairs – and waiting their turn – were not only two village residents, but also two very white foreigners. Duyen giggled, then stopped. One of the foreigners didn’t need to be sitting in the salon. He looked uncomfortable curled up in the little salon chair. Too tall to be sitting there, and too much a man to be participating in the manicures and pedicures, she wasn’t sure why he was there.

The other foreigner had the whitest skin and the bluest eyes Duyen had ever seen. She was talking with one of the villagers, laughing at some unknown joke. Duyen couldn’t tell just what. They were talking too fast for her to even catch any of the words she knew.

But one thing was clear: they were speaking English. No villager could speak English as well as that, and then – when the girl turned and spoke fluently in Vietnamese to explain what the foreigner wanted – Duyen was even more confused.

She walked away from the group, to the back of the shop where her sister kept an extra outfit for after school. Changing into the comfortable outfit, she grabbed her school book and went back to the shop.

Shoving her book in front of the blue eyed foreigner, she smiled as big as she knew how and jabbed a finger at the first sentence and started to read.

“Minh is a boy. He lives in a village with his mother and his father. Beside his home is a lake. Beside the lake is a pond. There are fish in the pond.”

She read it quickly, slurring through the words she didn’t know how to pronounce.

The foreigner grinned – so big, in fact, Duyen thought her cheeks might burst – and pointed to the next picture, inviting Duyen to read the story underneath.

Dear Minh: Thank you for the letter. I am glad you sent a picture of your family. Today I went to see my friend Hanh and we played with the chickens.

There was a burst of English words between the foreigners. The blue eyed girl laughed, asked another question, and then turned back to Duyen.

Together, they read the next story. And then another. And another. This time, the blue eyed girl would stop and repeat a word, correcting Duyem’s pronunciation. Over and over they’d repeat the same word back and forth. Blue eyed girl would shake her head, repeat the word, and then grin – nodding – when Duyen (finally) said it properly.

Then it was the alphabet. The blue eyes were patient as Duyen stumbled over the harsh sounds.

Then the girl started pointing at pictures, asking for the Vietnamese word. Duyen giggled. Words sounded so funny coming out of the white girl’s mouth. Completely wrong, actually, but Duyen wasn’t going to tell her that. She was trying so hard, never able to get it right, but making such an effort.

The blue eyes grew tired. They’d only worked on six words, but she held her head and groaned dramatically.

“So tired,” she said in English.

Duyen pretended to understand, then turned to ask for the translation.

“Co ay met roi!” said the other girl.

Duyen nodded.  That made two of them.