“In art, we do not obliterate the darkness. Art is an attempt to define the boundaries of the darkness.” ~Makoto Fujimura

It wasn’t until I became a mother that I began to really pay attention to nature. The world around us moves in seasons that often have parallels to our own lives. Cycles and repetition, death and renewal–I guess you can say the sanctifying life of following Christ is also the same. There are seasons of questioning, seasons of receiving answers, seasons of dying (in some sense or another), and seasons of rebirth and resurrection.

I’ve experienced them all, as I’m sure you have, and with more yet to come.

I’ve been quiet here for a few months now, because as tightly as I was trying to keep it all together after the death of my husband, it wasn’t long before the fibers began to fray. Not only did my entire being need space for more grief, but my heart and mind needed a new container and a new direction. I was no longer in the deep grief and lament that I had limped through earlier, but I wasn’t yet completely restored. I’m not sure I’ll ever be the same as before. To the very core, I have been permanently altered and it’s just been here recently that I’ve come to accept that.

I’ve remarried a wonderful, wonderful man and have set about the all-consuming work of blending a family. I wish someone had prepared me for the impact of that, but it’s possible I probably wouldn’t have listened, much less understood. Apart from the daily ministering of our hearts and minds with the Gospel, wounded hearts need more than just love, they need time to find their mending. Some parts of our new family have taken to the other parts as if they had always been there. Some of the parts come in waves of acceptance while others feel like they will dismantle with the slightest whisper of redirection. It’s been tough going, I’m not going to lie.

But the Lord is good, and His mercy endures forever. Great is His faithfulness.

Right after Matt died, I felt lost and untethered. I discovered pretty quickly I couldn’t leave the house. This overwhelming anxiety would shake me down as soon as I tried to get in the car to go to the grocery store. The world seemed too big and large and noisy and busy and my tender, aching, bleeding heart just couldn’t take it. I simply didn’t have the space or energy or ability to do anything but hold my grief layered with that of my son’s. Even though Matt died here, I found home to be the safest, quietest, place where I could go gently and move only at the pace of a person who felt half-alive.

In the weeks after Matt was gone, I took up calligraphy–the slow, meditative, drawing of letters was so soothing to me. I took online courses and workshops and would spend hours sitting at the kitchen table writing out the Psalms in various styles. It was healing work, producing nothing for anyone but myself. I would get up early in the morning–sometimes in the middle of the night, as the grief would often overwhelm my sleep–and cry and weep and process my sorrow in those moments, calligraphy nib and inkwell close by–all so I could be ready to take on my son’s laments as soon as he would open his eyes to the world. 

I also stepped back outside. We would sit for hours around our fire pit with sketchbooks and journals and watercolors in hand. I would paint leaves and flowers and birds and ladybugs. I would paint the small wonders I could find in my then neglected garden. I would listen to the goats voice complaints and sketch and paint one of our ducks as I would hear the soft padding of her webbed feet as she waddled by my chair. 

I found rest and understanding with my paintbrush. 

My work, again, while not for anyone else, helped me to make sense of the moments of my day. I’ve found that when you’re grieving, sometimes the goal is to just make it through that moment so that somehow, anyhow, you can make it through the day. Nature, the outdoors, and a paint brush (and calligraphy nib) were the tools the Lord provided me during those days of deep grief.

I came to nature study and by extension, a watercolor practice, through Charlotte Mason. I came across her philosophy in 2016, when my son was 5. At the time, our homeschooling journey was a train wreck. As a former teacher and elementary principal, I essentially was trying to recreate the school room at home. 

That’s a journal entry for another time, though. 

The Lord sent me the work of Cindy Rollins to introduce me to Charlotte Mason and later, Ambleside Online. I began to devour Charlotte’s writing and knew instantly the direction we needed to take. I’ve not ever looked back. Thank the Lord!

My introduction and love of watercolor began then, as I explored nature study with my son. We slowed down, experienced the world around us with the senses the Lord gave us, and found so much grace and a beautiful invitation for a place at that table. 

I had no idea then that the very practice of paying attention, using my senses, and ultimately picking up the sketchbook and watercolor brush would be the tools the Lord would have me use to bring about my mending in those very dark days after Matt died. I couldn’t skip over the grief (and yes, I tried this–major fail), but through painting, I found I could bring gentle reminders of beauty and hope to myself and encourage my soul through tender strokes of color. One flower at a time.

And as the seasons have changed, I find myself here again. While the heavy rainstorms in this season have subsided, the thunder clouds threaten rain from time to time. The paint brush has been my umbrella, so to speak. It’s allowed me to find rest and move chaos to canvas. I’ve taken classes, booked workshops, attended conferences, explored mediums, thrown away more abstract floral interpretations than I have kept, dreamed (a lot), reclaimed my identity as an artist, been embarrassed about my dreaming, then have dreamed again. At the time of this writing, I’m halfway through my manuscript (a 2025 release!) of my first book, Making for Mending, to inspire you in your creativity through dark and chaotic times. It’s my story–it’s your story–of how the Lord created you to make.

As I have found, you can find mending in the making. 

You were created to make.

So here I am. The direction is changing, the wind is shifting. The soil was tended (and is still being tended) for new seeds. Some seeds were planted years ago (heirloom) and others are brand new (more of a new hybrid variety, perhaps). But Lord willing, they will grow.

I can’t wait to share the harvest to inspire you to live a more creative and intentional life. Thank you for walking this journey with me. More is coming.

I am so, so grateful. 🌸