Veronica Ponce Photography & Design

What is Happiness?

Like most of you, I used to equate happiness with the way I felt. I assumed that if I felt good, then I was happy. Happiness was all about me and my feelings about my life. When things went my way, I was happy. When they didn't, I wasn't. And that's the way it's always been...for a long time...until recently.

I learned something amazing just the other day. Through all the hard times and painful circumstances I have faced lately, I have discovered what it means to be selfless. I don't think I ever was before. I mean, I thought I was, but I had never been put to the test. And realizing the healing power of selflessness, I found a sort of release and freedom. In my case, it was all about my kids.

You see, even though I was struggling and sad I found strength through them. I found that in being strong for them, I could give happiness even if I couldn't feel it for myself. Knowing that I could give them that -- well, it helped get me through. It didn't make me happy in my day-to-day but it didn't really matter at that point because knowing that the choices I was making, and the actions I was taking, could only keep their world happy and secure...well that was bigger than me. Much bigger than me.

Children judge the state of the world by the condition of their parents. I think it was James Dobson who I first heard say that. When I heard it, it made an impact but because at that time things were going so well for me I never really felt what those words meant. But lately I have. I have learned that I can put aside the way I feel and focus on choices for the well-being of my kids. My state of mind has nothing to do with me and everything to do with them. If I choose to focus on pain or struggles in life, I will consume myself in sorrow because the truth is that this life doesn't get any easier or any better. There are constant storms and all we can do is hold on and get through.

My sister-in-law once told me that it was like going through a sandstorm and you can't see the end of it but you push through because you know there is an end. Well, sometimes we don't want to push through. We just stay stuck in that storm and we feel sorry for ourselves and become victims of our own weakness. I did that for awhile. But my kids were part (a big part) of what made me get through to the other side. For them, I wanted the air to clear. Not for me. I could have stayed stuck. I could have just let those storms swallow me a little longer. Why not? It is so easy to feel sorry for ourselves and to become overwhelmed by those circumstances that we can't control. But there was a voice speaking to me. It wasn't my voice. It wasn't even my decision. It was just the knowledge that if I allowed myself to make choices that only made me happy or brought me satisfaction of some sort, I could permanently impact the way they see life and the way they deal with things.

So I see now that God allowed me to feel that pain and sorrow so that I could appreciate even more the happiness in these smiles and the role and responsibility that I have in them and for them every day. It's not even that I do it because I always want to...sometimes I don't. It's because the responsibility I have is so much greater than the way I feel. I think that's selflessness and it feels good in a strange sort of way. It's like suddenly it's okay if I'm not happy all the time...I don't have to be. But I can still make them happy and that has become enough for me.

On the day that I took these photos, Sebastian had decided that he wanted to do a little "project." So he pulled out a model airplane and the other kids quickly followed. They did this on their own. It wasn't even my idea. I wasn't in the mood for the mess to be honest with you. But they got the instructions and started on their own...they even pulled out the plastic tablecloth that I use to protect the table. They were so proud...they were beaming...glowing. They wanted me to be happy with them. There's a sort of irony to that really -- that they would desire to bring me joy. They wanted me to see their accomplishments and be proud but the truth is that I am proud of much more than the fact that they did this by themselves. I am proud of the way their hearts are shaping. And I am constantly humbled by their unending desire to please me when I feel so often that I am unworthy of that kind of unconditional love.

They ground me every day. They teach me so much. In this process of child rearing where I am supposed to be the teacher, I find that I am learning every day also...sometimes more than I am even teaching. It's a back and forth thing I guess. I try to teach them by my experience and supposed wisdom and they teach me the raw truths that are forgotten in adulthood.

The truth I learned for today is this: It is greater to give happiness to others than to experience it for ourselves. When we are focused on what we need to be happy, it is easy to be brought down by the surrounding circumstances. But when we become selfless and learn to live through the joy of others whose lives we touch, then nothing can bring us down because our strength comes from a bigger place and that kind of joy is uncompromising and never dependant on the conditions of this world. It is untouchable and unchangable. In this sort of selfless living I have found peace in the midst of the turmoils in my heart.

In these perfect smiles, I have found the definition of real happiness and it has nothing at all to do with me or my feelings.

The Amazing Thing About Adoption Is...

I love color photos. There is something magical about seeing the coloring of a child's eyes, hair, skin and surroundings and how those colors interact with each other. Color shows joy and childhood beautifully but there is something equally fascinating about black and white. Black and white photos capture the essence of childhood in a way that color never can. So I don't always know which way to go in my conversions when I'm proofing. Sometimes it's obvious...but other times it's not. And in the end, it's always a matter of taste. Of course, with girls this beautiful you can't really go wrong either way can you?

Sieta and Annabella are not only beautiful girls on the outside, they are truly beautiful and special inside, too. They were adopted from Russia just like my girls and like all of these beautiful Russian children that have entered our lives in the last few years, they are a blessing beyond measure...both to their parents and to everyone who meets them. Their souls are so pure and gentle and loving. There is something in the nature of these Russian children that I can't quite put into words but if you met them and spent just five minutes with them...well...you'd experience exactly what I mean.

My prayer is that anyone reading this who has even remotely considered adoption would really give it a heartfelt thought. Leave it in God's hands and ask Him to guide you toward a decision that brings you peace. There are so many children that need parents and if there is one thing I can promise you beyond a shadow of a doubt is that not only will you love them and bond with them exactly as much as you would a biological child, but I can guarantee you that what they bring to your life is much greater and much more powerful than you can even begin to imagine. The blessings that they will pour on you will outnumber anything you think you might be doing for them. There is no comparison.

You see, people always say that adoption is a wonderful thing because they think of it as some kind of charity -- as if somehow you are a better person for doing it. But in reality, adoption is almost a selfish thing because you get to experience a love that many people will never know. You get to know pure unconditional love that knows no boundaries and has no obligation but yet will consume you with a joy and passion unlike any other. You will look at your child and wonder how on earth you could have ever existed without him or her and you will never ever stop wondering what would have happened if you hadn't found each other. The "what ifs" and the guilt of even having ever stopped to think about the decision, will consume you from the inside out and they will make your love even more powerful and protective.

Your vulnerability is intensified when you realize that there was a remote possibility that you may not have ended up together...and yet something inside of you will tell you that there was no way it wouldn't have happened. This was meant to be your child. Always. There was no other way. How could he or she have been borne from another and yet be so closely tied to your soul...intertwined and inseperable? You are literally two lives joined as one -- like a master plan come to fruition. You will realize that you were created exactly for this purpose. God led you straight to each other yet along a different path than you may have envisioned initially. But God will bring you to your child and your child to you. And you will hear that voice inside of you that aches with the knowledge of the things your child experienced before you came into his/her life and you will want to do anything you can in your power, or even beyond your reach, that can give your child peace and comfort in your love.

It is beautiful and spiritual and powerful.

You see, the amazing thing about adoption that most people don't realize is that you will actually gain so much more than you will give; and anything you think you might be doing to help a child, will literally pale in comparison to what that child does for you. No, it's not charity. Not at all. It is love stripped to its most pure and raw form and it will humble you to know that, in the end, you really have nothing at all to offer but so much to gain.

I promise you.

Faith Like a Child...

There is something so inherently beautiful in the eyes of a child. It doesn't matter whose child it is. If you look in a child's eyes, as I often do when I photograph them or work on their photos, you can see it. There is a clarity that we aften attribute to being naive, but in reality, they see things the way they should be and not always how they are. And that, in itself, is so beautiful. It is the reason why we should have faith like a child. Pure. Simple. Trusting.

A child will always believe that his parent has the best intentions for him even when that parent is abusive. There is something in the way a child is pre-wired, that makes him want to love. We were all built that way. But we grow and life makes us hard. It makes our eyes grow darker, and what we sometimes call "wisdom" is actually ignorance in the grand scheme of things.

So here's what I'm talking about. If you look in Sophia's eyes, you can see it. I don't know what goes through her little brain or what experiences she will encounter in her life that darken or cloud her view. But right now. Her eyes are pure and transparent. And that is a beautiful thing!

 

Happy "Belated" Easter!

To Christians, Easter is the most important holiday of the year. You see, if it were not for that miraculous event that took place on the first Easter, none of us would even be Christians. Before that fact even some of Jesus' most devoted followers doubted his ability to resurrect. I've often heard people say (and I will admit have even said it myself in the past), that if only we could "see" things with our own eyes then we could believe them. I mean if we lived and walked with Jesus, surely we would have believed beyond a shadow of a doubt. But is that really accurate or true?

Many of Jesus' disciples loved him but didn't completely believe or understand the full extent of his message...until that first Easter. Everything changed on that day. Not just for them. But for all of us. I heard a pastor say something this week that I always knew but never realized. When the women went to Jesus' tomb on Sunday, they didn't go to witness the resurrection or to worship the risen Christ, or even because they believed he had conquered death (as he said he would). No, those women went to prepare his body the way they would for any other dead person that they loved. They loved Jesus. They mourned for him. They wept for his death. But they didn't really believe he would rise from the dead...even though they loved him...even though he had told them he would...even though they walked and talked with him and witnessed what he could do. So, what makes us think we would be any different if we had a firsthand account of anything?

You see, that's why, in the end, it doesn't really matter what we see. God doesn't always speak to us that way. It's much more powerful than that...and much more complicated.

Over the past few months I have experienced some situations that have tested my strength on many levels. There are things I have gone through where I haven't been able to "see" God or his truth revealed. Unlike other situations in my past where I was always able to rely on God and feel him working, this time I felt alone and I allowed myself to relish in sadness. I can only explain it by telling you to listen to the song "Somewhere in the Middle" by the Casting Crowns. I have felt like that and it has made me so sad because I never imagined myself, or my faith, wavering. Don't misunderstand me. It's not that I don't believe. It's that I couldn't "see" it. Even though I know God's word is true, believing it and experiencing it, isn't always easy. So it's been a strange place to be for me.

Like many Christians, I struggle with my daily faith and my daily walk. It isn't easy to always believe everything you see or don't see. Sometimes the hardest thing is just holding on. But looking back on everything I've been feeling, I can honestly say that God has been carrying me through. I haven't wanted it. I haven't asked for it. In fact, in some ways, I've even turned my back on him...almost like I'm saying, "Hold on, I'm not ready to heal. I need to go through this on my own and then I'll get back to you." But God hasn't let me go. Not even when I have let go of him.

I can't say I'm better. I can't say everything is perfect. But I can say that I have "felt" God's presence carrying me...just like the story of Footprints. Many of you have heard it before. It's about the man who had a dream he was walking with God. Throughout his journey he always saw two sets of footprints in the sand but when life got the hardest, he only saw one. So he accused God of abandoning him during those times. And that's when God replied, "No. It was during those times that I carried you."

That's how I feel.

I feel that God has been carrying me for awhile now. I know that I've got to get on my own two feet soon. I'm almost afraid that he'll get tired of doing it for me. But then I remember that his word says he loves me infinitely more than I could even imagine...and I choose to believe it because I am a living, breathing testimony of God's work. It is not me. I cannot do any of this alone and, in fact, I fail miserably at it every single day. And even when I've tried to make my own decisions...even things that I know could hurt me...I have seen God stop me somehow. It's like there is something greater than me directing me and pushing me in the opposite direction of where the human me wants to go.

I have weaknesses...many of them. Sometimes our human pride doesn't allow us to dwell on them. We want to pretend we are fine. We want everyone to think we've got it all together. And sometimes we do. Sometimes things are exactly as they should be. But when they aren't...when life's storms threaten to topple us over...our weaknesses pop out and try to take control. We let it happen sometimes, even when we know better, because we almost think it might be easier to just give in. It is too hard to be good. That is when the strength of the Lord has to be enough. And we have to hold on to that hope...even though it is so hard.

Today I heard a voice in my head that just kept repeating the words, "...my power is made perfect in weakness." And I suddenly remembered how Paul struggled with his weaknesses and begged the Lord to remove his torment away from him. He believed that a messenger of Satan was tempting and torturing him with whatever his affliction was and that if God removed that thorn from his side he would be good again. He would be better. So he prayed and asked God to remove it. And why wouldn't God do it? He loved Paul. Paul served him. Who better to bear witness to God's healing power? But it wasn't what God wanted or chose to do. On the contrary, he actually told him, "My grace is sufficient for you. My power is made perfect in weakness."

So I'm holding on to those words. It's not easy. You may think it is because I write it so convincingly. But it's not. It's hard to just let go and be weak. And do as Paul did, to boast about the weakness so that Christ's power may rest on me. But this is one of those moments that I believe something I cannot really see or feel. And maybe Easter is the perfect day to begin to "Let Go and Let God."

And so a new life begins...

The world continues to spin and grow and new blessings and miracles join it every single day. Devin is his mommy and daddy's miracle and I got to spend some time with them a couple of weeks ago for his newborn session. Isn't he adorable? He's got reddish hair and that awesome newborn smell...yummy! :) Seeing these photos makes me smile...I hope it does the same for his family. :)

There's nothing quite like having your first baby. No matter how many more you have after that...and they all have something special about them...but that first birth is...magical. It changes everything about everything in your world. Nothing is ever the same again when you have one of these little guys or gals join your family. I wish them all the best in this new journey and I'm so happy I've been able to help them retain a little piece of it so far... :) :) :)

I have so many favorites from this session that it will be hard to limit it to just a few -- but I'll try.

Today I'm Really Sad...

A week ago today I walked in to a familiar house and found myself in unfamiliar surroundings. It was my aunt's house -- the same house I had visited so many times throughout my life -- but this time everything seemed different.

For starters, there was a hospital bed where a couch used to be and in it, an elderly woman lay dying.

My cousin had told me to be prepared because Lola didn't quite look like herself anymore.

She warned me...

But nothing she could have said could have prepared me for this.

The woman I found on the bed wasn't Lola. She wasn't the spunky exuberant woman I had loved and laughed with and, I'll admit, had often driven me crazy with her incessant talking. She wasn't the character or spirit of the aunt I had always known.

This woman was an old woman...barely even a body anymore...with a vague resemblance of someone I used to know hidden in the valleys and grooves on her face and skin. She was a bony frail figure that lay immobile for the last thirteen hours of her life...unable to say anything or do anything save a few groans and muttering.

No, this woman wasn't Lola. All this woman could do was raise her eyebrows and breathe slow labored breaths with a marked death rattle stirring in the back of her throat. She couldn't move her body...she couldn't see...she couldn't smile...she couldn't speak or express herself. That wasn't Lola at all.

Lola was a full figured, voluptuous woman...this woman had bones protruding and saggy skin.

Lola always had her hair neatly styled...this woman had stringy gray hair and lumps all over the back of her head.

Lola had big expressive eyes...this woman had a blank stare and hollow eyes.

I just couldn't reconcile the two women.

I kept wondering what was going on in her mind in those last few hours. Were there things she wanted to say but couldn't? Was she aware of her failing body or had she already given up? Was she part of the process or a victim of it? Was she suffering or in pain? Was the morphine helping her or trapping her?

The last few minutes before she died were the worst. She started groaning with every slow breath. Every exhale made me cringe. She sounded almost desperate and none of us knew what to do. But as quickly as the moaning began, it ended. The breaths were slower and labored and then as her pulse faded, she had prolonged periods where she would stop breathing altogether. This went on for what seemed like forever before everything went silent.

Earlier that day the hospice nurse had come and told us what to expect. She said Lola was not in pain but I still wondered. She went through the process of death step-by-step in a very gentle and considerate manner. We knew what to look for...the sweaty body with the cold feet; the feverish swollen neck; the slow deliberate breaths; the signs that she may be in pain; the signs that her organs were shutting down; the clammy skin; the almost inexistant pulse; the gasping for air; and finally...the release. It would happen late at night when everything was quiet and still, she said, when the sub-conscious adrenaline rush produced by the energy in the room subsided.

As the hours ticked away, little by little, Lola went through all of these steps to death one by one until her body completely shut down right before our eyes.

The only thing I did know for a fact throughout the day is that Lola could hear us. The nurse said it was kind of like being in bed with a really bad flu and you know things are going on around you but you aren't a part of it. She said Lola could hear us but there was no way to be sure exactly what she was processing. And yet, in some ways, throughout the day, Lola let us know that she was still with us...that her heart and mind were there...not all of the time, but some of the time...right until that last moment. Something of her remained in that bed, and even though all I could see was her bony shoulder protruding straight up from the bed, and her feet that were slowly swelling and turning blue...and her hands that were unresponsive and limp...I knew that as her body was falling apart, her spirit was hanging on.

No, it wasn't really her. That's what I was thinking when my cousin took this photo. I didn't even realize she was taking it until after she was finished. The funny thing is, I'm a photographer...I had my camera with me...and it never occurred to me to take a photograph. I had never seen anyone take photos of anyone on their death bed before. I'll admit I even found it a little odd at first. But when I saw this picture on her camera, I knew I had to have it.

This moment...less than 12 hours before Lola left the earth...was difficult. It was a long, painful and sad day. But the poignancy of this photograph does not escape me and the power it has needs no words or explanations. It is what it is. It hurts like crazy to see and remember and yet it is also strangely beautiful to me.

I will remember this day and I will remember Lola forever. Even though today my heart is breaking...even though the core of my being aches with unexplainable pain, I thank God to have had her in my life. I thank God to have known such a spunky, exuberant woman and to have grown up hearing her laughter and drama. But mostly, I thank God I was there when she took her last breath.

I loved her with all of my heart and I'll love her for the rest of my life.

It was impossible not to love her and it will be impossible to ever forget her.

Saying Goodbye...

It's a rainy day here today.

Perfect weather for my mood.

Today my Aunt Lola will be buried in Las Vegas.

Just a few weeks ago, Lola was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and given six months to live. But the cancer progressed much faster than anyone expected and she went to be with the Lord this weekend. Her death was as beautiful as any death could be. She died in her husband's arms surrounded by her children and all of us who loved her. I consider it a privilege and a blessing to have been present at that moment when God called her home. I have never experienced anything like it.

As painful as the memory of her last day was...as difficult as it was to watch her wither away before our eyes, I will choose not to remember her that way. I will remember Lola as an energetic, dramatic, outgoing, talkative person with a loud, high-pitched laugh. Although I cannot describe her laugh, for some reason I can still hear it in my head. Sometimes my mom laughs exactly the same way.

Lola loved to talk...I mean really loved to talk...so seeing her lying in that bed, unable to utter a single word, was unbearable. It wasn't her. That person wasn't her. Cancer stripped her of her voice, but never of her spirit. Somehow I know that she was there with us throughout the day and that she heard us up until the last second of her life. I believe she was happy to know how loved she was. And when the house was full of people, laughter and conversation throughout the day Lola must have felt a distant joy. The nurse said we were too loud but that just made us laugh because no one liked that kind of noise more than Lola. She loved to be around family. She thrived on it.

Throughout the day she acknowledged us in the only way she could -- by raising her eyebrows. I heard her breathe only one word that day..."agua." She said it to me and I dabbed the sponge on her parched lips and tongue as she made a desperate and uncoordinated attempt to swallow the liquid. I got to hold her hand and caress her and let her know that I loved her. I congratulated her on the legacy she was leaving behind. I looked around the room at one point and realized that all of those people -- all of those children -- were there because of her. Her four kids, her 15 grandchildren and her 9 great-grandchildren -- she was the root of it all. What precious seeds she planted on this earth.

It was hard to let her go. And I know up until her last breath that it was hard for her to let go. It wasn't until her children and husband said goodbye and encouraged her that she relented. She fought it as hard as she could for as long as she could. She smiled just minutes before departing and when asked if she was seeing someone, she raised her eyebrows. Was it her parents? She smiled again and raised her eyebrows. They had come to take her home forever. As she gasped for air for those last few minutes, it struck me that everyone will have a last breath and despite the ugliness of cancer, the one positive thing it did provide was that moment when she slipped away in her husband's arms peacefully. As ironic as it may sound, it was a beautiful ending to a beautiful life.

My mother and her had a special relationship so it was quite a blessing that she made it just in time to say goodbye. Lola waited for my mother to arrive. We kept telling her that Oria was on her way. And she waited. When my mother finally arrived, Lola's breathing changed, her shoulders gave her away, her eyebrows moved up and down feverishly and she tried to open her eyes. One tear escaped her as my mother prayed over her and sobbed. Her sister had arrived and she couldn't leave until she got there. My mother wasn't even supposed to arrive until Wednesday but God stepped in and on Friday we changed her flight. We didn't even do it knowing that Lola was about to die. We thought she had more time. We thought they would have more time. But God knew. So He put it in our hearts and made it possible. It was an unexpected blessing in disguise.

Just a few hours after my mother spoke to her, Lola slowly and quietly faded into the hereafter. The light on her earthly life was turned off in those early morning hours...but the memory of her will shine forever and I know her spirit lives on. Once her spirit left her body, the cancer seemed to disappear with it. Her face became soft again, her wrinkles faded, the veins that had suddenly and viciously popped out of her forehead in those last few moments were no longer visible, and the protruding cheek bones seemed soft and full again. She looked peacefully and blissfully asleep...almost too much so. It didn't seem possible that she was dead -- she had to be sleeping and would wake up at any moment. But it wasn't so. She was no longer there.

Lola was larger than life in so many ways...so much bigger than the disease that claimed her body. When I saw that frail bony frame unable to move, barely able to breathe, ravished by the effects of cancer, I found myself looking around the room at all the pictures of her the way I remembered her...voluptuous, full of life and laughter. She was a dramatic woman, no doubt. Her expressions were always grander than most...the pitch of her voice just an octave higher than the norm...and that's why it was so hard to see her pressing on, struggling to take a breath, moaning for those last few minutes before her family encouraged her to go so that she could live in God's glory as intended and not in the decaying flesh that housed the frail remnants of an unrecognizable woman.

Lola was an ever-present figure from my childhood...the aunt I most spent time with as a child. Even though we didn't speak all the time, I know I was in her thoughts...she kept up with my life...with my kids...with my husband. She came to my wedding in 1996 and I remember her serving the lasagne for the guests at my rehearsal dinner. I remember being grateful to her for all of her help...I know she did it mostly for my mom...but she did it. She was there. Her presence was unforgettable -- she brought calm and resolve in those stressful days before my wedding. Those are the things we tend to remember about people once they've passed -- all the moments that are ingrained in our experiences and interactions. Sometimes we make someone something they weren't. I don't want to do that with Lola. I want to remember exactly who she was -- all of her eccentricities, opinions and personality. That's what I loved about her. That's what I will miss. She made me laugh. She was an original.

In elementary school, she sewed a few dresses for me. I remember this one especially because I loved the gingham pattern with the small strawberries. She made it for the school fashion show for me. She made another dress for me with my name on it. My cousin Michelle had the same one in red with her name on it and we used it when we performed as "The Sunshine Cousins" in front of our family. I still have that dress packed away in a box...one of the few things I kept from my childhood.

I spent so much time in Lola's house as a child that when I walked in it this weekend to see her, and the house, for the last time, I was flooded by emotion and memories. Being in her room, seeing her pictures and memories around the house, stepping into her sewing room...all of those things made the pain deeper and sharper than I could have ever imagined.

On the wall of her living room are many many frames with pictures of her life and the people in it. The pictures go back many years but they all paint the picture of her time with us...the things that were important to her. You could almost tell the story of who she was just by looking at them. It was hard to look at them all and realize that it was over.

We made it just in time to see her and I will be forever grateful to God for the circumstances that led me there this weekend...for the flight changes we made just in time so that my mother had a few moments -- at least -- to say goodbye. There was no peace to be made...their relationship was clear. They had a special bond and connection that many sisters never share and I know it will be hard for my mother to live without her weekly long distance chat fests with her sister.

She was 79 when she died. She would have been 80 this year. Many people would say she was older and had a full life so it was a "fair" time for her to go. But for some reason, no matter how old a person is, when you love them, it always seems too early. It always seems unfair. It is never "time" until you see them suffer and then you pray for the moment when the pain will cease which inevitably leads you to wish for the end. But it still seems wrong. And it still hurts. And you always wish for just a little more time because somehow 79 years just doesn't seem like enough. I read her obituary and the summary of her life. There is no way to fully capture a lifetime in a paragraph but there it is. That is what the world will know about her and it is nowhere near enough to describe who she was and what she left behind and what she did and accomplished in those brief 79 years on earth.

Today, my body feels heavy and my soul is tired. I will not physically be at her memorial service and burial because I had to return home but my thoughts and my heart are in Las Vegas as we say goodbye to Lola. I've thought about her a lot these days. I wonder what she's doing, what she's thinking. I know she's alive and being her usual self. That thought makes me smile even though there are tears in my eyes and a hole in my heart.