If you've spent any time in this state, you already know. August doesn't negotiate. It doesn't soften for your special day, it doesn't care about your silk dress or your carefully planned hair. The sun at Chapel Dulcinea that afternoon was the particular kind of relentless that makes you nearly question every decision you've ever made — and also somehow makes even harsh light absolutely stunning for photos.
Chapel Dulcinea sits on the edge of an ancient walking trail on the Wizard Academy campus, about 20 minutes southwest of downtown Austin. It's an outdoor chapel, which means yes... you feel every degree of that Texas August. But it also means you're surrounded by greenery and wildflowers and a stone overlook that makes you forget, briefly, that you are melting. There were six of us at this wedding. Me, my husband, my very newborn daughter, Nicole, Jon, and their pastor. My husband carried our girl off to the car so she could nap while the ceremony of four began. I had my Canon Mark III, a very janky 1984 Canon AE-1 loaded with film, a speaker for the processional and a worship song, and the job of witnessing something sacred.
Before any of that, though — Nicole got ready in a small building on the chapel grounds, and inside it stood the most gorgeous tall wooden mirror, hand-carved and clearly very old, the kind of thing that makes a room feel like it has a story. She created her own bouquet with proteas tucked in amongst the blooms. We became friends on a three-month trip to Cape Town, South Africa, and I watched her fall in love with the blooms and the flower markets and the jaw-dropping gardens that seem to grow in every direction there. Standing in that little room watching her get ready, proteas in her hands, I remembered all of it — those gardens, that trip, the version of her I met on the other side of the world — and I was so full I could have burst. Cape Town's gardens are extraordinary. Nicole, that day, was more beautiful than all of them.
Also, let me be honest with you about something before I say anything else: I almost missed the first moments of this ceremony because my newborn needed to eat. And since I could not cue the music at the perfect timing, wield two cameras and a baby, the bride waited. Because that's the kind of person Nicole is.
My daughter needed to eat, and so Nicole, the bride, stood and waited at the edge of that very long aisle in the August heat, in her dress, ready to go. No fanfare. No bridal party fussing. No coordinator with a timeline barking in an earpiece. Just Nicole all composed and radiant and probably also very warm — giving grace to the chaos of new life while getting ready to start her own.
Jon, the groom, is an outdoorsman in the truest sense. He's led people through grueling treks in the Colorado mountains. He knows what it looks like when the sky breaks open over a summit at golden hour — the kind of sunset that stops you mid-step and makes you feel like the world was made on purpose.
In his vows, he reached for that image to describe Nicole. Not to compare her to a sunset, exactly. More to say: she surpasses it. That being with her feels more right than standing on any mountain he's ever climbed. More right than any view he's ever earned.
And all four of us were very dry-eyed as he shared. (Just kidding, obviously. We were all bawling.)
They worshipped together. They spoke their vows. They kissed and became one. And then they walked to the chapel bell and rang it — the sound of it rolling out over the hill, over the trail, out into the hot August air (Have I mentioned it was August and also HOT?).
I've known Nicole for many, many years and can say this with full confidence: she is the kind of person who makes you feel like the most interesting, most valued person in the room. She's smart and warm and funny and deeply, genuinely kind in a way that isn't performance — it's just who she is. For a long time I wondered who on earth would ever be worthy of her.
Then Jon came along. And I understood that God had simply been taking His time (How annoying, God lol.)
I shot this wedding on two cameras — digital and a 1984 Canon AE-1 that is old and a little broken and absolutely wonderful. Film forces you to be selective. Every frame costs something, so you stop and ask: is this worth it?
An elopement requires a different kind of intentionality than a full wedding day. With a larger wedding, the day has its own momentum — getting ready, the procession of family, cocktail hour, speeches. Moments unfold naturally and you don't necessarily have to create them. With an elopement this small, the photographer carries more of the creative weight. I'm thinking about the dress, the exceptionally harsh light from the exceptionally hot sun, and all the other details they'll actually want to remember. I'm prompting, guiding, and suggesting, but as naturally and quietly as possible so it still feels genuine. The couple leans on you to make sure nothing gets missed.
My husband and daughter were napping in the car by the time I took the last two shots of the day.
Nicole and Jon, driving away. First frame: Them smiling. Second frame: a quick kiss.
And film for both of them.
They rang the bell. They got in the car. They drove away into a Texas August afternoon that didn't negotiate (even though I pleaded Mother Nature for a few clouds) and didn't soften, but we caught that light exactly right.
That's the thing about an elopement — it strips the wedding down to what it actually is. Two people. A covenant. A witness. A God who ordained it.
Everything else is beautiful, but it's also extra.
Nicole and Jon didn't want the extra. They had each other, a hilltop chapel, and the kind of love that makes a man compare you to the best thing he's ever seen — and then say you're better.
