The Boy Under the Tree

Published on Eternal Moment Photography – From the Heart: Stories Behind the Lens

Yesterday I woke up at 8:20 in the morning. I stayed in bed for about forty minutes, trying to decide what the day would become. Something inside me felt restless, but not in a bad way—more like I was being nudged. I had the idea to drive toward Door County to take some photos. My loose plan was to rent a 150 to 500mm lens and maybe visit Peninsula State Park. I didn’t have a set location, just a pull to move north.

Before I left town, I stopped at Kwik Trip for a Liquid Death water, grapes, a coffee, and an apple. I wasn’t thinking much of it, just grabbing what I needed for the road.

As I got northeast of Green Bay, I saw a small green highway sign that caught my attention. It said, “Sighting of Mother Mary – 2 miles north.” I checked Apple Maps and saw it was near Champion. I didn’t hesitate. I turned off course and followed my intuition.

I actually found the cemetery first, thinking that might be the place. I parked and stepped out. The first thing I saw was a tall statue of Yahshua on the cross. I took a photo of it. The light was dramatic, the colors rich. Then I wandered toward the graveyard, thinking I was alone. I let out a burp without thinking—and from behind a tree, I heard, “Good one.” I laughed. “Thank you,” I replied.

That’s when I saw him.

A young man was sitting in the shade, eating cookies and visiting his grandpa’s grave. He had this peaceful presence, like he belonged there. I asked if he’d be willing to let me photograph him. He agreed, and I asked if he could move slightly into the sunlight so I could capture the light on his face.

After that first frame, we started talking.

He told me his name was Kory. And then he said something that made me pause. Just moments before I arrived, he had been asking his grandfather for help finding someone to take his senior pictures.

I told him I was a photographer, and that the sign—that sign—is what brought me here. I said I had all my gear in the car, and if he was open to it, we could do a full shoot right now. He said yes without hesitation.

We walked back to my vehicle and started unloading my lights. We talked more. We got comfortable. And then under the tree, with the light coming through the branches, something clicked.

I realized who he was. Not in name, but in essence. I don’t think I could fully explain it even now. He was more than just a stranger. He was a message. A reminder. A presence I had been seeking, without knowing I was seeking.

It was just him and me under that tree. And in that stillness, time itself seemed to bow out. Nothing rushed. Nothing strained. Just the sacred ordinary unfolding in front of my lens.

When our shoot was over, he offered to drive and lead me to the shrine—the place of the Marian apparition. I followed behind, not quite sure what I was walking into, but knowing I was meant to be there.

When we arrived, I walked the grounds slowly. The silence was different here. Thick with meaning. Every statue, every chapel window, every path felt intentional. People have been coming to this place for over a century with prayers, questions, grief, hope.

And there I was. No agenda. No tour. Just presence.

And in my bag, still uneaten, was the apple.

Something stirred inside me. That apple, so simple, started to carry weight. I thought about Eve, the Garden, the bite that changed everything. I thought about what it meant to return the apple—not in shame, but in reverence. To place it not as a symbol of guilt, but of healing. Of completion.

I walked toward the base of the cross, near the statue of Yahshua. I saw a place in the mulch where it felt right. I set the apple down gently, beside a small card I had carried with me. On the front was the image of Jesus with the words "Jesus, I trust in You." On the back was the Apostles’ Creed.

It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it felt complete. Like something ancient being honored in a quiet, deeply personal way. I didn’t need anyone to see it. It wasn’t for performance. It was a return. A restoration. A prayer without words.
And in that moment, it wasn’t about theology or doctrine. It was about being human. Being willing to return what no longer serves. Being willing to let go. Being willing to believe that sacred things can still happen in small towns, on unexpected roads, with strangers who become signs.

Many people spend their lives chasing meaning, chasing miracles, chasing moments. But sometimes, the moment finds you.

And only a faithful few recognize it when it does.