I had my camera slung around my neck after pausing in snapping some pictures to accompany the story I was working on. At the moment both of my hands were in the possession of the two people on either side of me.
We were praying together.
I thought to myself, "Wow, this would make a wonderful photo opportunity. All of these different people, of various backgrounds, races and religions, holding hands, and praying for peace and reconciliation in this big old city."
But I didn't. I'd have to drop the hands of the two people on either side of me, anyway.
Because I realized this was a time that the journalist had been welcomed to be a part of the story. Not the story to be written about and printed, you see, but the "real story," the "bigger story." The story that was happening before my eyes, that differed from the story I'd type out the following day. No, this was the living, breathing story.
As we bade one another farewell and went off to our respective homes at the end of my interviews, I kept thinking about that missed photo opportunity. These people had taken my hands as they'd gotten together in their closing prayer, really without a second thought.
The story as I wrote it turned out quite well. I used some of the ordinary photos I'd taken before the prayer had started, of baskets with items for the needy and stuff like that. It worked out nicely for the purposes of publication.
But I'm grateful that my hands were taken at the beginning of their prayer, and I was unable to take any pictures at that time. This was the behind-the-scenes moment, the moment that the journalist always treasures in his or her heart, but never includes in the story because that's not where the moment belongs.
Moments like this missed photo are a part of many of my stories. Though they are never revealed in the articles, I believe they're kind of there implicitly. Exactly as they should be.
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