Joy Comes in the Morning (2025)

"How long did it take you to paint that?" I've often wondered what people are getting at when they ask me that question. I'm sure some are just curious, but sometimes I wonder if they are basing the value of the painting on how many days or hours I invested in painting it. Truth be told, this particular painting only took a few hours over a couple of days to physically paint. Does that make it less professional, less serious, less valuable?

Honestly, it really took the accumulated experience of over 60 years to paint what you see here. Everything I've seen out there in the world, observed other artists do, practiced (and failed) and practiced (again), everything I've walked through, everything I've processed emotionally, mentally, and spiritually is wrapped up in the brush strokes, colors, subject matter and emotions of each painting I create. Each painting is evidence of my personal journey, a page from my personal story.

As for the specific story behind this one: Truth be told, I had a really miserable day last Sunday and I was feeling very low. By the end of the day, I had talked myself into a pretty dark corner. After one particularly long mental rant, I bowed my head in defeat. "God, I don't know what I am doing." And as is often the case, my rant and simple desperate prayer were met with a gentle whisper: "Go pick up that big canvas. Paint that scene I showed you yesterday at the park. Paint it sunny. Paint it the way it felt. Start with orange."

So that's what I did.

I squeezed out the paint and lost myself in toning the canvas orange. It's not like I felt like painting--I was still feeling pretty much like a failure. But in moving my body, in obeying that still, small voice, in doing--something!--I started to feel less badly. Maybe not better, but, maybe just a little bit hopeful.

Later I sketched out the trees, loosely mapping out the lights and darks. I decided I would post a photo of the start of this uncertain work to my IG story. I usually don't like letting others see the unfinished work because I don't want people to see the inevitable mess it becomes. But this time I felt it was time to just paint for me, and also celebrate that process with others. So what if it doesn't come out the way I'd like? So what if they will notice and criticize the imperfections? So what if I really don't know what I'm doing? I think others feel that way, too, so let's just be real and celebrate whatever it is that's going on here.

While still processing a season of loss and grief, the act of creating this painting has helped me take another step in healing. By painting loosely, by ignoring "rules" and "expectations," by enjoying the scene and enjoying the process, and by painting for myself, my emotions and my body have relaxed a bit more. There have been times in recent years when I honestly couldn't feel any joy; I had lost track of what it actually felt like. How grateful I am for that still, small voice that reminds me to try again, that redirects my thoughts, that assures me the rules don't matter and that I am deeply and eternally loved. How grateful I am to be able to push color around with a brush, moving my body in ways that are healing. How grateful I am for joy.

Weeping may endure for a night, But joy comes in the morning (Psalm 30:5)