GRANDEUR UNFOLDING

LINDA PAYNE-SYLVESTER—CAPE NEDDICK, MAINE

The gray wet scene through my front window wasn't beckoning me to venture out that particular chilly morning, and I didn't see anything in my front yard I wanted to photograph. But it was early spring, so I knew that if I looked hard enough, I'd probably find something I hadn't seen before.

As a photographer, I've learned not be discouraged by the appearance of "the same old same old," but to be persistent in looking deeper. I've always liked this statement in Science and Health: "As mortals gain more correct views of God and man, multitudinous objects of creation, which before were invisible, will become visible" (p. 264).

So, it was with expectation that I made the rounds of my yard and garden, until I spotted a small hosta plant starting to unfold its leaves. There were tiny rain drops along its edges. But as I photographed the leaves, I began to think less about tiny drops on a little plant and more about dramatic light and dark, boldness of line—something grand and big. I realized that right where I could have easily passed by, I was being shown a glimpse of God's grandeur unfolding in something quite small.

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