Grace Flows Like a River pauses a single heartbeat of worship and lets it bloom on paper. In this quiet monochrome, Carlos Idun-Tawiah finds a woman seated in an Accra church, yet her attention has already drifted past the rafters. Eyes closed, mouth relaxed, she listens to a hymn only she can hear.

A wide-brimmed hat lifts at its rim, tracing the unseen breeze that gives the picture its title. Like water, the fabric curls, moves on, returns. Lace and pearls anchor her to the moment, yet they shine with the same light that pulls her beyond it. Faith and finery share one current.

Light does the speaking. It skims her cheek, pools in the folds of her collar, and leaves the congregation behind her in gentle blur. Depth of field becomes doctrine: each soul meets the divine alone, every soul remains surrounded by others.

Her lifted arm completes the liturgy. The hand stays open, not clenched—an invitation rather than a victory sign. The gesture feels intimate enough for a diary, yet public enough to unite the entire room. That tension—private ecstasy inside communal ritual—charges the frame.

Black and white strips away distraction. Without colour, the viewer supplies sound, scent, memory. The photograph offers only essentials—tone, texture, gesture—and asks us to fill the silence with our own stories of belief.

With this image, Idun-Tawiah moves past documentation into visual prayer. He shows how grace travels like a river: gentle, ceaseless, winding through cloth, skin, and light, leaving every shore it touches changed.