In life’s darkest days there remains this assurance: we are never alone. Even in the shadows of my life where I often tremble with shame, You are present there as the light that ever shines without ceasing, and when I turn my heart to that darkness I find that You were there, shining, all along. —Meister Eckhart

Like a tornado we’ve watched approaching from the distance, there are seasons when we’ve hoped against hope that this wouldn’t hit us, but nevertheless, life’s storms intrude upon our homes, our minds, our very souls, demanding and even violating our sense of peace, security and agency (control). In our hyper-vigilance it doesn’t take much to trigger us into flight/fight responses. Sound familiar? Our home rests amidst a fire-scorched landscape. Every day I’m reminded of the destructive power of fire, but also of what might be growing underneath the surface. I am aware that there is a deep hidden treasure that is yet a hope, and can only come as the fruit of great loss. In fact, the pain and the joy accompany each other, co-mingled in the darkness. Underground, in the dark, there is a certain glory. The hope of resting roots and seeds. We need to learn the secret of stillness. Each year seeds rest underneath. Roots grow in the subterranean. In the dark and quiet. It is so with our souls. We need to be grounded. Anchored. Rooted in these greater realities. It’s important that we nurture our inner lives in love, security, and a sense of control. Without these needs being met (and they truly are needs to be honored) we feel uprooted and chaotic, finding it nearly impossible to latch onto a sense of hope. “I pray that, according to the riches of his glory, he may grant that you may be strengthened in your inner being with power through his Spirit, and that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith, as you are being rooted and grounded in love.” (Apostle Paul, Ephesians 3:17)

I’ve written about the “dark night of the soul”. This painting was created during one of the darkest periods of loss in my life. I knew what I intended to paint: a tree that I’d photographed on Ghost Ranch, NM. During this lengthy period of trauma it seemed that the harder I tried to put the brush and paint to the paper, the more futile my attempts were. And so, on this day, my frustration turned to fury. I mixed black pigment and released those emotions onto the paper. But you’ll notice I did leave a little window of hope, allowing the under-painting to shine through. I’ve held onto the truth: “This is not the end of the story.” The painting’s title comes from this poem: Grief is subversive, undermining the quiet agreement to behave and be in control of our emotions. It is an act of protest that declares our refusal to live numb and small. There is something feral about grief, something essentially outside the ordained and sanctioned behaviors of our culture. Because of that, grief is necessary to the vitality of the soul. Contrary to our fears, grief is suffused with life-force.... It is not a state of deadness or emotional flatness. Grief is alive, wild, untamed and cannot be domesticated. It resists the demands to remain passive and still. We move in jangled, unsettled, and riotous ways when grief takes hold of us. It is truly an emotion that rises from the soul. —Francis Weller

They say two things are sure: Death and taxes. And yet it remains a great mystery just what we are to expect when we pass over through death into eternity. The scripture in the book of Hebrews speaks of a wondrous solidarity we share with those who have gone before us, and invites us to use our imaginations: we’re running a race in a stadium, our lives being witnessed and cheered on by those witnesses who look upon us from the other side. “But now God has invited us to live in something better than what [those faithful who have gone before] had - faith’s fullness! This is so that they could be brought to finished perfection alongside us. As for us, we have all of these great witnesses who encircle us like clouds. So we must let go of every wound that has pierced us and the sin we so easily fall into. Then we will be able to run life’s marathon race with passion and determination, for the path has been already marked out before us.” (Hebrews 11:39-12:1, TPT) I look forward to that day when this mystery of loved ones who have gone before me, and the realms of angels and saints… all become my present reality!

She sits upon the wall, her pink dress pooling gently around her. The wall beneath her is no ordinary stone—it is layered with paper, music, scripture, and stories woven together, a foundation of truth shaped by time and hands that knew how to place each piece with purpose. Before her stretches a garden both cultivated and untamed—planted with intention, yet free in its growth. Wild grace blooms here, vibrant and alive, its colors deep and rich, a landscape shaped by care yet flourishing in its own way. A great tree leans into the garden, its branches sweeping low, encircling the space cradling it in quiet protection. At the garden’s heart, a presence, a portal, glows—not merely sunlight, but an invitation, a threshold between what has been and what is to come. This place was made for her, prepared with care by the Gardener Himself. Every flower, every path, every flicker of light calls her forward. But she does not rise just yet. For now, she rests. She is on the threshold, not lost, not wandering, but waiting—watching the place prepared for her, knowing she belongs. She does not force the moment; she lets it come. She does not strive; she receives. And soon, she will rise.

A woman stands at the edge of the hills, her white dress shifting in the wind. The sky stretches vast and open above her, unshaken and steady. Beneath her feet, violet flowers press into the earth, their roots deep, their presence sure. A brook moves beside her, carving its quiet path through the land—persistent, unceasing. She stands in stillness, yet not in hesitation. God is here. In the air that moves, in the water that runs, in the ground that holds firm beneath her. He is not somewhere else, watching from a distance. He is present—woven into the sky, the land, the moment. Textures of paper and paint form the world around her—built in layers, shaped by movement and time. Like the willow beside her, she bends but does not break. She moves with the wind, yet remains rooted. She stands, knowing she is seen, known, and held. She does not grasp at the wind; she lets it pass. She does not flee; she remains. And in her standing, God steadies her. He is her ground, her keeper, her certainty. “God is within her, she will not fall; God will help her at break of day.” —Psalm 46:5 She who stands—in the presence of God.

A man sits effortlessly at the center of a great wheel, his posture open, his presence unwavering. Around him, a vibrant storm of color and texture turns—a cosmic mechanism of gears, movement, and light. The world spins, in layers of paper and paint that dance together in orchestrated chaos. Yet within the motion, he remains—receiving, witnessing, being. This is where heaven touches earth—not in the absence of movement, but within it. The swirling momentum is not a void, nor is it something to be escaped. God is not absent from the storm, nor from the hush that settles in its center. He is in both—the chaos and the stillness, the motion and the pause. He is both the turning and the waiting. The colors pulse with life: deep blues and purples hum with mystery, fiery reds and oranges streak across like echoes of energy, and golden highlights catch the light like whispers of the divine. The textures—scraped, dripped, and layered—add depth, each mark telling a story of motion and stillness coexisting. Though the gears turn, he is secure. Though the energy swirls, he is held. He can go nowhere that God is not. In the spinning, in the stillness, in the unknown—he is never alone. The love of God is both the current that moves and the anchor that holds, the wind that turns the wheel and the peace that steadies his soul. This is the paradox: velocity and peace, chaos and grace, motion and presence—all finding harmony in one sacred still point, where God is and always will be… and where the man is called the Beloved.

A wild iris is a remarkably resilient and complicated flower. The petals are in unique shape and complicated patterns that bend and twist, folding into it’s lovely iris dance. As it blooms, the delicate petals untwist yawning into beautiful daylight joining its sisters who adorn forest living rooms with glorious beauty. But what of the dirt she finds root in? Those sweet nutrients coalescing in glorious glistening thinness of violet blue are a reordering of nature’s detritus. Dead leaves from generations past, fallen animals by time or claw, that dead and decaying matter strewn along the glorious forest floor leach nutrients into the ground. Death and decay blends with the miracle of snow melt to germinate a near microscopic seed that swells and boldly bursts through the hard earth of spring to render a rebellious glory in a field of brokenness. So too the human heart­—if we let it. The brokenness of life, the failures, missteps, and “no’s” of life. Those full throttle, nose-bleed, face-plants in a direction you were convinced was a green light. Setbacks, and set ups. All the sadness that litters the floor of you heart’s living room. All that waste is not wasted. There is a heavenly rain that comes to liquefy the detritus of your life, to soak nutrients deep into your heart where seeds lay waiting. What wants to bloom in your heart? Rest patiently, prayerfully, anticipating beauty that will only come through your pain like a wild iris.

Full color interactive journal. 8.5 x 8.5

Limited sizes available

Original Painting by Lori Vafiades

Original Painting by Kristopher Orr

Original Painting by Sylvia McGuire

Original Painting by Sylvia McGuire