On a chilly morning in November of 2012, I visited what the locals call "Pretty Place" in the mountains near the North And South Carolina borders. I arrived before dawn, driving down narrow and unfamiliar roads to the chapel, not even certain I was headed in the right direction. I had long-since heard of this special spot but never ventured there before that morning.
Winding roads through the mountains, complaining tires around the steep curves, tightly clutched hands on the steering wheel finally got me to the turn-off road (at least, I hoped it was the right road). Now I was on a tiny strip of pavement I had never travelled, driving slow, deep in dark mountainous woods, looking for signs in my headlights, anything that would help me get to my destination.
Up ahead I saw the gate, already opened, to permit early-morning visitors access to the grounds. I was there. Soon I saw the parking area and the unimpressive rear of the chapel. The parking lot was empty.
Good. That is what I had hoped for.
I parked, got out my camera and tripod, and made my way to the rear chapel opening. Stepping inside, I saw that it was completely open air, no side or front walls, but a sturdy-looking roofed structure with a wooden cross at the front of many rows of pews. The faintest light peaked over the horizon.
Having no flashlight, I cautiously stepped down the levels of pews until I got to the edge of the low-walled stone floor where the cross stood, there on its heavy base, bursting with raw religious symbolism. The sky was beginning to lighten up, showing off the lovely scenery: miles and miles of mountains and hills and valleys. Hard as I tried, my attempts to capture that majestic view with my camera in that low light was not working.
I walked around the front of the chapel, looking for a good composition, clicking shots, chimping, then shaking my head in frustration. This beautiful place; why can't I capture its wonder?
I walked back inside the chapel, went up a few levels, and sat down in one of the pews, watching the sun slowly rise in front of me. Then I realized that the best view was from inside the chapel. I set up my camera on my tripod in the middle of those pews and began to take photos, moving my tripod forward and back, up and down those levels, as I clicked the shutter.
The sun had warmed the quiet air. The chapel felt almost enchanted. Much of the time I just stood there, looking; some old feeling, some old memory stirring inside me. I felt a deep connection, one I could not understand.
Other folks began to arrive, immediately stepping into my shot, taking their own photos, spoiling the privacy of the moment. I spoke pleasantries with a few of them, then collected my gear and headed home, not certain I had gotten what I came for.
Hours later I was looking at the photos in Lightroom. Some were fairly good. Then I saw this one ... with the sunburst beside the cross. I loved it. As I edited the photo, bringing up the exposure to see the interior of the chapel, I saw something unexpected, something I had not consciously noticed earlier. On the main crossbeam was a message:
"I Will Lift Up My Eyes To The Hills."
As a young child in the 1950s, my mother and grandmother would take me to church each Sunday at Mount Carmel Baptist Church in Pickens, SC. At that time, it was a small wooden structure, similar to the size of the chapel in the photo. Something in those old memories recalled the message on that crossbeam, a message I heard often in that little church, a message I never understood as a child.
But I loved the sound of those words.
I sat in front of my computer, staring into that photograph for a long time, a few tears escaping, memories now flowing, memories once locked inside my mind, memories of those two sweet ladies who loved me, memories of what it felt like to be that young and untouched by life’s inevitable harshness, memories of the warmth of familial love, and the fellowship of those mornings with the glorious singing of hymns in that little church. It was as though a lost past had been restored, awakened from a long and deep sleep.
For just a little while, sitting there at the desk in my bedroom, emotions released, thoughts floating freely though times gone bye, I got the chance to feel how I felt back then, in my younger innocent days, in those simpler, more innocent times.
And it felt good.