There’s something sacred about waiting.

Not the passive kind — the kind that lingers in anxious silence — but the holy kind, the kind that stretches across time like a deep breath held in unity. That was the atmosphere of Worship & Wait — a night we gathered as a church not for answers, but for presence. Not for performance, but for posture. It was a night to prepare our hearts for Pentecost, to lean into the stillness and listen.

As a follower of Jesus and a visual storyteller, I came that night with a few lenses packed in my bag. But as the evening unfolded, I found myself reaching for only one: the Lensbaby Velvet 28mm. There's a softness to that lens — a poetic quality. It doesn't just capture light; it interprets it.

The auditorium lighting became my collaborator, casting shadows and illuminating faces in ways I couldn’t have planned. It deepened the blur where mystery lives, heightened the contrast where spirit met skin. I was experimenting with multiple exposure photography — layering moments on top of each other, not unlike how the Spirit often layers stories, emotions, and revelations within us.

Each image became a form of prayer. Some I turned to black and white — not to strip away beauty, but to remove distractions, to focus more deeply on the spirit moving in the moment.

One frame held hands lifted in surrender, blurred just enough to feel like motion caught mid-response. Another image layered a solitary figure in reflection with prayers and praise — as if the private and the collective were folding into one. These were not photos as much as visual psalms. They speak not just of what was seen, but what was felt.

We weren’t just waiting for something that night. We were waiting with expectancy. With hope. With hearts tuned not to timelines, but to the breath of the Spirit.

In this liminal space before Pentecost, the images remind me: the waiting is not empty. It’s weighty. Holy. Beautiful.

And sometimes, blurred edges and streaks of light speak the loudest truths.