I rarely speak about God or spirituality on social media. That’s intentional. I believe these are deeply personal choices, and I try to honor each person’s right to walk their own path in this lifetime.
But if you’ve ever spoken to me in person about my art, you may have heard me say that I consider it a gift from God—one that arrived exactly when I needed it most, shortly after my husband was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer. How else could I explain beginning to paint at age 60 and having people want to buy my work and hang it in their homes—their most sacred, personal spaces?
This morning, while painting, I had a profound experience I feel compelled to share. I don’t often talk about the challenges in my life. I’ve never been comfortable with a victim mentality. I was raised to focus on the positive, and I consider that mindset my resiliency superpower. But even superpowers have their limits. My therapist, who I began seeing after my husband’s diagnosis, once told me, “Just because you don’t acknowledge something doesn’t mean it’s any less true.” That stuck with me.
Just because you don’t acknowledge something doesn’t mean it’s any less true.
Like everyone else, I sometimes feel overwhelmed. And in those moments, it helps to talk things through—or to express my emotions creatively. That’s exactly what painting has become for me: a space where all my feelings, joyful and sorrowful, are invited to come out and play. And in those moments, I feel God playing alongside me. Often, it feels like He paints through me. The work becomes His, not mine.
I felt this deeply while creating a piece for a family who had lost a loved one to suicide. I struggled for weeks to paint something “perfect.” Then one morning, I woke up, felt God’s presence, and completed the painting in a single sitting.
The same thing happened again today.
Life has thrown me more than a few curveballs lately—including one of the biggest: a terrible fall that shattered my kneecap. If you know me, you know I’m one of the most active people around, even approaching 70. My dog is usually exhausted just trying to keep up with me. I walk five miles every morning, and I rarely sit still or ask for help. So imagine me now, wearing an immobilizer brace from ankle to mid-thigh, barely able to walk across the room without assistance. And this could go on for quite some time.
Add that to everything else I’m navigating—my husband’s cancer returning, lupus, Alzheimer’s and dementia in the family—and it’s easy to feel overwhelmed.
So I turned to painting. These days, I paint from a stool, taking frequent breaks. I intended to paint flowers, but apparently, God had other plans. Before I knew it, my 3-by-3-foot canvas was covered in mountains. I let it sit, adding a little here and there. Then this morning, I woke up before 6 a.m. and began painting again. Suddenly, it felt like someone else had taken over. I was simply following along.
And just like that, the painting was complete.
I call it Mountains to Climb. Through it, God reminded me that I have many mountains ahead—my knee, my husband’s illness, family struggles—but I’m not alone. I now believe I have the strength to climb each one and emerge on the other side, whatever that may look like, and whenever that may be.
It won’t be easy. Think Mount Everest. But I plan to make the journey one small, sometimes painful, step at a time.
