Under the summer sunshine in flourishing fields of the sweetest strawberries.

It’s a sweet sort of symphony listening as they cling less to my fingers and wonder that much louder the whys of the universe, mulling over discoveries of their own with minds made for greatness. Yes, it's the most treasured sort of reward to watch them, full of light and strength, with roots grown deep and thick, flourish out into the space of who they were created to be. And so here I’ll be through their song and blossom, in the background of their grace-rich story- ready to hold and comfort sometimes, ready to let go and let be sometimes but forever and always, trusting in, resting in the One who loves them most.

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A family historian.

I did my best growing up in fields polka dotted with hay bales, just off a beach of a gravel road my roots are tucked within rolling hills. Every now and again when I crack eggs in the skillet and the sizzle joins the music of a morning full with tumbling feet and eager laughter for the day, I am back in my grandparents home, my Grandma Bonnie and my Pop. Their farmhouse was one of fairytales. I knew it even then. 

It was white and porched and the rickety swing overlooked Missouri hilltops, the same woods we would explore for hours because that's what you did there. Nights were spent under quilts on beds too small for the many growing bodies that piled in the one bathroom home, but that's where my sisters and I told our secrets and listened carefully because if we didn't let them hear us stir, we could make out the stories the grownups would stay up with long after the moon had risen. 

The stories.

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Carter and Louie and the beginning of their brotherhood in the heart of Kansas City.

I find these days so magical.
The ones that now feel like a blur in my own story.
The ones where my eyes were always sleepy and my coffee never warm and my ankles still swollen as little feet ran around them faster than I could waddle with my body still ravaged from months carrying the little one who was bringing us such wonder.
And their father and I, hunkered down in the home, trying to find our way through the survival mode of growing our family and navigating all the joys and trials of our love being wider than what we knew our capacity to be. 
And because these days are written in a chapter we've turned the pages from, I believe somehow it softens my heart more tenderly to see them differently for others. To take me back there again where they are, to make with my images words to their story, a song of thanksgiving for the gift of life.

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newbornallison french
Three, soon to be four, filling souls with laughter and the sort of delight that comes with sweet tradition.

With the sun above and bringing richness to all the colors of the day, these three, soon to be four, filled their souls with laughter and the sort of delight that comes with the choice to make traditions as holds for memories rich and sweet.
This is Molly and her family in the heart of Kansas City doing what they love to do, together.

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Unfolding magic over the steaming stove and in the fading sunlight on a quiet evening at home.

I love these film and photographs because they were made for a family making the most of the minutes that matter.
I made it for a mother pursuing her passion while living her love, crafted for a father's tender heart of strength. The imagery in it is honest sacrifice and sincere devotion, bringing light to the one they together, treasure most. Because for them, these years will be made up of moments like gems, tucked in crevices of time, pure and precious and priceless.
This is a motherhood session from Allison Corrin in Kansas City.

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Samantha’s graceful art of mothering her little women.

As a wise woman once said, "The art of mothering is to teach the art of living" and her masterpieces will carry her grace into history because with gentle guidance and tender touches as brush strokes across the lives of her heart made flesh, she makes rich beauty of each moment as it slips quietly into legacy.This is the motherhood film of Samantha on a quiet morning in her studio with her little women.

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While snowflakes fell and the night closed in, Orion Blake was born.

It's not often that words fail me, but as I sit here, humbled in tears by their tears, having been there myself five times over, and yet still can't seem to wrap enough verbiage around what I witnessed that night.This moment steals the breath from my lungs as my heart rushes back to how it all was. Because life is from the beginning and always, a gift. This man, whose life has already been marked by courage and sacrifice, as he always has, and always will, stayed beside the woman he loves side, her rock, wrapping comfort around her through the night and into the morning and across the hours of another day, wiping her tears, hearing her before words could be formed. And she, steadfast through the pain for the sake of her son, never questioned her path, never doubted her strength within, working through the dark and as snow fell around them, eyes closed, soul unwavering through the suffering for the longing, steady for who their arms would finally hold. And then there was the hover between warmth and light, drawn out by his father, pulled to breast by his mother, their son was earthside, his first breath, what we all held our own for, the gasp of cold in his lungs, exhaled in cries as melodies of miracle.  

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