I created the original version of this piece while living in the Washington, DC area as a gift for my mother, where it now hangs in her home. This piece is a 20x20" print of that artwork. Each sheet of paper was hand-painted with watercolor, then torn and layered to form an abstract shoreline — suggesting sky, sea, and sand without fully defining any one of them.

There is something about torn paper that feels both fragile and intentional. The edges are uneven, unexpected, and impossible to replicate exactly — yet together, they create a sense of movement and cohesion. What begins as separate pieces becomes a unified whole.

Looking back, I see in this piece a quiet reflection of how God often works in our lives. Not always in smooth lines or perfect forms, but in fragments — gathered, layered, and held together in ways we may not fully understand at the time. And somehow, in the end, something whole and meaningful emerges.

This photograph captures a simple moment I’ve always loved — standing in the ocean as the waves rush in and out, feeling the sand shift and slip beneath my feet. There’s something about that sensation — steady and unsteady at the same time — that feels both grounding and freeing. A reminder of movement, of letting go, of the quiet rhythm of the tide.

Printed as a 20 x 20" canvas, this piece brings a calm, coastal presence into any space, with soft textures and natural tones that invite pause and reflection. As an original photograph, this piece carries both a personal perspective and a sense of place.

This image has held meaning for me in its simplicity. I hope it offers the same sense of peace and presence wherever it lands.

This triptych was created from a photograph I took on a perfect spring day by the ocean in Pompano Beach, Florida. It was one of those rare moments when everything felt balanced — the air soft, the light just right, the water alive with motion and shimmer.

Rather than choosing a single image, I was drawn to the way the shoreline itself was constantly changing. Each panel captures a slightly different moment as the waves rise, meet the sand, and slip quietly back again. Together, they hold the rhythm of the tide — an unfolding movement that never quite repeats, yet never really ends.

There is something about the edge of the ocean that feels sacred to me. It is a place of meeting — where what is steady and what is shifting come together. Standing there, watching the water come and go, I am reminded that God often meets us in these in-between spaces… in the movement, in the waiting, in the quiet return.

This piece was originally created as a digital graphic for a Pentecost sermon series at Ebenezer United Methodist Church, where a dear friend of mine was serving as pastor. This version is a print of that original artwork. From the beginning, I designed this work to evoke the feeling of stained glass in a church window — color, form, and light working together to tell a story. The layered shapes and bold lines are meant to suggest panes of glass, while the radiating colors carry the sense of light shining through, illuminating what might otherwise remain hidden.

The imagery draws on the language of Pentecost — fire, movement, and the presence of the Holy Spirit breaking into ordinary life in extraordinary ways. At the center, a rising flame evokes both the Spirit and the Church set ablaze, while the broken chains speak to the freedom that comes when God’s power loosens what has held us bound. Radiating lines of color extend outward like light, like energy, like a message that cannot be contained. Pentecost is never a quiet moment — it is disruptive, transformative, and alive. And in that holy disruption, we are reminded that God is still at work, still setting people free, still sending us out into the world with courage and fire.

This large-format, 3-panel triptych began as a photograph I took of the Hillsboro Inlet Lighthouse when Chuck and I were living in Pompano Beach — a place layered with memory and meaning for me. My family’s drift-fishing boat, the Helen S, passed this lighthouse multiple times a day, heading out into the Atlantic. It was part of the rhythm of life. It was also part of our story — Chuck and I were married off that boat during a Bahamas trip, in an informal ceremony officiated by my Uncle Tom. On our way back to Florida, we saw the lighthouse on the horizon, framed by a double rainbow stretching across the inlet. It’s a moment I’ve never forgotten.

This piece has been part of our home and our story for many years. I hope it finds a place where it continues to carry beauty, memory, and a sense of the horizon ahead.

I painted this piece remembering a summer night on Raquette Lake in the Adirondack Park. We had taken a boat out into the middle of the lake, far from shore, where the darkness felt deep and complete. That night, under a crystal-clear sky, I saw the Milky Way for the first time. What struck me most was not just the beauty, but the scale of it. The sky did not feel distant; it felt overwhelming and vast, as though it had opened up right above us. The stars stretched endlessly, reflected faintly on the water below, until it was hard to tell where sky ended and earth began.

The piece was created in acrylic on canvas, using layered washes and textured applications of paint to build depth and movement. The darker tones create a sense of vastness, while lighter and metallic accents are worked into the surface to suggest the shimmer and density of the stars, allowing the light to catch the painting in different ways depending on the angle. The original painting was gifted to a friend when he finished grad school, but I kept this 20 x 20" print of it for myself.

This painting was less about capturing that night exactly and more about holding onto its feeling — the awe, the stillness, the quiet recognition of something far greater than myself. Inspired by Psalm 19, “The heavens declare the glory of God,” this piece invites us to pause, to look up, and to remember that even in the vastness, we are not alone.

This 20 x 20" piece was created as a digital graphic for an Easter series at a friend’s church, after he returned to ministry following a battle with cancer. When someone who has walked through something that profound asks you to help tell a story of resurrection, you don’t hesitate — you set everything else aside.

At the center of the image, a tree grows out of an open coffin — roots pushing down into the soil, branches reaching upward into light. It is an intentionally stark image. What was meant to hold death becomes the very place where new life begins. Below the surface, the roots stretch deep and tangled, suggesting the hidden work of endurance, struggle, and survival. Above, the tree is full and green — alive in a way that feels almost effortless. The contrast between the two holds the tension of resurrection: what is seen and unseen, what has been endured and what is now emerging. The cross is embedded within that same space — both buried and foundational — reminding us that resurrection is not separate from suffering, but emerges through it. Easter does not erase what has been endured; it transforms it.

This piece holds that truth with quiet strength: even in the place of death, something is taking root, something is growing, and life — by the grace of God — finds a way forward.

Chuck and I were enjoying a quiet day at the beach when this scene unfolded. Behind us, the sun. In front of us, a sweeping bank of clouds rolling in over the ocean. What struck me was the contrast — the dark, rain-heavy clouds hanging low, almost touching the water, with brighter, luminous clouds layered above. It felt as though the sky and sea were meeting in that moment, suspended between light and storm. There is a weight to this image — you can almost feel the density of the air, the stillness before the rain, the quiet tension that comes just before something shifts.

Printed on canvas, this piece brings a sense of depth and atmosphere into a space, inviting reflection and a kind of reverent pause. This was one of those moments you don’t plan, only notice. I’m grateful I caught it — and hope it speaks to you as well.

This small (12x12") piece began as a simple exploration — what happens where water meets land, where movement meets stillness, where one thing becomes another.

But it also comes from a much earlier place in my life. I spent summers at the beach in Maine and Cape Cod, where my Gramma Marie and I would wake early, before everyone else, and walk the shoreline together. Hand in hand, we would stand in the water as the waves broke over our legs — steady, rhythmic, alive.

There is something about the shoreline that has always called to me. It is a liminal space — neither fully one thing nor the other. A place of constant movement, where the edges are never fixed. Layers of turquoise, white, and soft sand tones come together here in that same textured edge of surf, capturing the tide as it rolls in and gently retreats again.

Even now, that meeting place feels sacred to me — a place where I sense the movement of God: steady, shifting, and always drawing us toward something new.

This was one of my first attempts at painting. Simple in composition but deeply formative for me, the piece explores color, texture, and contrast through three elemental spaces: sky, shoreline, and water.

The painting moves from calm bands of turquoise sky and warm sand into the darker movement of the ocean below.

At the time I was painting on this 3x4' canvas, I was less concerned with technical perfection (which I’ve never achieved!) than with learning how paint itself could create emotion, movement, and atmosphere. In many ways, this piece feels like a study not only of the beach, but of attention: I was learning to slow down long enough to notice color shifts, texture, light, and space.

This painting was another early attempts at working with acrylics — less about technical skill and more about trying to capture a feeling I loved deeply.

When Chuck and I lived near Boynton Beach, Florida, we would often wake before dawn and drive to the ocean simply to watch the sunrise. There was something sacred about those mornings: the quiet shoreline, the rhythmic sound of the waves, and that brief, expectant moment when the sun would first begin to peek over the horizon.

I have always loved the way sunrise feels like both a promise and a question. The world is still half in shadow, and yet light is unmistakably coming.

Looking back, I can see how much of this painting was really about longing for peace, hope, and stillness in a busy season of life. Even now, it reminds me to pause long enough to notice the beauty of beginnings.

I took this photograph years ago at my Grampa Doc’s home on the shores of the St. Lawrence River — a place filled with memory, rhythm, and the quiet beauty of a life lived close to the water.

When he was a young man, my grandfather built a dock that could be wheeled out into the river at the beginning of each summer, then pulled back onto shore before the ice came in winter. It was practical, sturdy, and shaped by the seasons — just like so much of his life. By the time I took this photo, the metal spokes had begun to corrode and rust, worn by years of water, weather, and use. And yet, it still worked. Still held. Still did what it was made to do.

What drew me in was the texture — the layers of rust and mineral, the muted tones, the way time had marked it without diminishing its purpose. There was a quiet strength in it, a kind of beauty that only comes from endurance.

For me, this framed & matted image holds both memory and meaning: the ingenuity and skill of my grandfather, the constant rhythm of the seasons, and the reminder that even as things weather and change, they can remain faithful to what they were created to do.

This companion piece to Weathered Strength was photographed on the same day along the shoreline of my grandparents’ home on the St. Lawrence River. Over countless seasons, the water has slowly washed across the shale rocks, wearing away the surface little by little — carving unexpected textures, curves, and patterns into the stone.

What fascinated me about this section of stone is its quiet reminder that transformation is often slow. The river does not force the rock to change all at once. It shapes it gradually, through persistence, movement, and time.

I have always loved the way nature tells the truth about our own lives if we are willing to pay attention. We, too, are shaped over years — by love, grief, joy, prayer, hardship, and grace — often in ways we cannot fully see while it is happening.

This piece began with a printed canvas reproduction of the hands from Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam. What drew me was not the touch itself, but the gap between the fingers — God reaching forward with urgency, while Adam reclines backward, needing only to move the final inch toward the Divine.

During worship, the congregation was invited to write directly onto the canvas using metallic inks. People added prayers, hopes, confessions, and calls to action — words like “heal,” “share,” “restore,” “shine,” and “love.” What began as a reproduction became a communal act of faith.

The piece reflects a simple but difficult truth: grace reaches toward us first, but faith still asks us to respond. Not perfectly — just willingly. The metallic ink shifts with the light, causing different words to appear and fade throughout the day, echoing the spiritual life itself: grace may feel hidden at times, but the invitation from God remains: come.

I first saw this piece at Pier 1 and couldn’t stop thinking about it — I finally went back to the store to buy it. Something about it stayed with me, and it has stayed with me ever since. Over the years, it has traveled with me across multiple states and lived in multiple homes, becoming one of those quiet, familiar pieces that always finds its place.

The image evokes waves washing onto a sandy shore — though abstract in style, it carries a sense of movement and calm. The layered blues, soft neutrals, and touches of warm copper create both depth and warmth, making it a versatile piece for a variety of spaces. While the artist is unknown (as is typical for many Pier 1 pieces), the scale — approximately 3x4' — gives it a strong presence, whether as a focal point or part of a larger room design.

This piece has been well-loved and well-kept, and I hope it finds a new home where it continues to bring a sense of beauty and rest.

I encountered this piece while leading Marjorie Morrow’s funeral in 2018. Her family had gathered many examples of her artwork, and this one immediately drew me in.

There is something about these sails — the way they rise together, catching light and wind—that feels both lively and peaceful. Movement and stillness held in the same moment. A sense of being carried, even as you move forward into open water. Marjorie was a local artist whose watercolor work often captured coastal life with simplicity and joy. In Sailboats, you can feel that spirit — light on the water, wind in the canvas, and the quiet rhythm of a journey underway.

Over time, this piece has come to hold even more meaning for me. Sailing has become part of my own story — of paying attention to the wind, trusting the movement, and stepping into what lies ahead. In that way, this painting feels less like a scene and more like an invitation. I was drawn to it the moment I saw it. I hope it draws you in — and perhaps carries you forward — as well.

I first came across this piece while shopping for a gift at the now-closed Mack’s Groves in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea. It immediately caught my attention, but at the time it was well beyond what I could justify spending. Still, something about it stayed with me.

So I went back. Several times.

There was something about the combination — the stylized map, the detailed compass, the soft sepia tones, and especially the bold, beautifully detailed palm tree — that felt both grounded and expansive at the same time. It held the sense of place, but also the sense of journey. Even the frame drew me in — the color and intricate pattern reminiscent of palm leaves, echoing the tropical landscape within the print itself.

Eventually, after a bit of persistence (and, I suspect, more than just a bit of kindness on their part), the price came down just enough that I could say yes.

I’ve loved it ever since.

This piece has quietly greeted me — and everyone who has entered our home — for many years. It has hung beside our front door in four different parsonages, a constant presence through seasons of ministry, transition, and new beginnings.

At its center is the simple, handwritten verse: “As for me and my household, we will serve the Lord.” — Joshua 24:15

There is something about placing these words at the threshold of a home. Not as a declaration of perfection, but as a daily intention — a quiet choosing, again and again, of who we are and who we hope to be.

Over time, this piece has come to feel less like decoration and more like a companion. It has witnessed comings and goings, ordinary days and sacred moments, laughter, prayer, and everything in between. In each new place, it has marked the space as home.

A meaningful piece for any entryway or gathering space — offering both welcome and a gentle reminder of the life we seek to live within our walls.

I have always loved maps — how they hold both geography and imagination, story and place. This framed & matted print of an ancient map of the Holy Land, originally created by the 16th-century cartographer Tilemann Stella of Siegen (c. 1525–1589), has long been one of my favorite pieces, with its intricate illustrations, ornate flourishes, and beautiful Latin script.

The map title reads: “A new description of Palestine, or of the whole Promised Land.” And within the map, a central inscription traces the history of the land’s name — from Canaan, to Israel, to Palestine, and finally to what it calls “the Holy Land.”

For me, this piece is deeply personal. My love of maps has always drawn me to the places where faith has unfolded — and that love became something more through three journeys to the Holy Land. What once lived on a page became something I could walk, see, and pray. For me, at has been both a work of art and a reminder: that the landscapes of our faith are not only remembered — they are lived, revisited, and carried with us.

This piece has followed us through multiple homes over the years, and somewhere along the way I lost track of exactly where it came from — perhaps Bombay Company, Pier 1, Kirkland’s, or another favorite wandering-through-the-store “this feels like us” purchase from many years ago.

What I do remember is why I kept it. I have always loved the balance of structure and softness in this piece: the overlapping circles, textured surfaces, geometric forms, and earthy colors that somehow feel both modern and calming at the same time. Depending on the room and the light, it can feel architectural, contemplative, or simply warm and grounded.

Sometimes art does not need a famous name or dramatic backstory to become part of a life. Sometimes a piece simply lives with you long enough to become woven into the memory of home.

This carved wall piece was one of those objects that immediately drew me in — not because I knew anything about its origin, but because of the extraordinary texture, symmetry, and craftsmanship. The repeating patterns feel both ancient and timeless, almost like something discovered rather than manufactured.

I have always been fascinated by the way circles appear across cultures and throughout nature: ripples in water, tree rings, stars, tides, seasons, prayer beads, labyrinths. There is something deeply calming about patterns that repeat and return.

Over the years, this piece has quietly anchored several different rooms in our home. Its earthy tones and carved surfaces carry a sense of warmth and steadiness, while the intricate design invites you to keep noticing new details every time you look at it.

It is also surprisingly heavy — not emotionally, but physically. The first time you pick it up, there is always a moment of, “Oh! This is much more substantial than it looks.”

This framed collage was handmade by my aunt when Chuck and I first moved to Florida in 2001. At the time, everything about South Florida felt new to us — the tropical plants, island colors, ocean air, and slower coastal rhythms that would eventually become such an important part of our lives.

Combining botanical sketches, woven textures, and vintage Caribbean and African postage stamps, the piece feels like a celebration of travel, nature, and island life. I have always loved the small details: the faded stamps from Anguilla, the layered textures, and the way the entire piece feels both relaxed and carefully crafted at the same time.

Looking back now, it feels almost prophetic. Long before we ever imagined moving aboard a sailboat, this artwork was already quietly pointing us toward exploration, toward simplicity, and toward adventure.

For nearly 25 years, it has hung in our home as a reminder of new beginnings and the journey that brought us here.