The Healing Arts Series #1

There are some wounds that do not loosen their grip through conversation. Some grief does not untangle itself through explanation. There are losses that sit too deep for tidy prayers.

I did not paint this piece to decorate a wall. I painted it because I could no longer carry the anger inside my chest.

When my sister died from an overdose, I did not just lose her. I lost the future I imagined for her. I lost the version of her that would grow older beside me. I lost conversations we would never have and milestones she would never reach.

And if I am honest, I was angry.

Angry that addiction had such power. Angry that I could not save her. Angry that love had not been enough to stop what was coming.

Grief is rarely quiet. Sometimes it rises like heat. Sometimes it presses down like weight. Sometimes it stands in the doorway of your thoughts and refuses to leave.

I could not pray it out at first.

So I painted it.

I do not paint gently when I am hurting. I paint with pressure. I paint with movement that feels more like wrestling than artistry. There were days I layered darkness over darkness. Days I walked away from the canvas and could not look at it. Days I came back only to stand there in silence.

While I worked on the final layers of that moonlit desert, I listened again and again to the song “Oceans.” The words became a bridge when my own words would not form.

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders.

Somewhere between brushstroke and chorus, something began to shift.

The desert appeared first. Then the solitary tree. Then water cutting through land that should have been dry. Finally the moon rose over it all.

I did not plan the symbolism. It emerged.

There is a single tree in that painting. Its roots do not quite reach the water. When I look closely, I still feel a small ache. The quiet echo of what might have been different. The tender place where regret still lingers.

But when I step back and take in the whole, I do not see regret first.

I see light.

The moon does not create its own light. It reflects what is greater than itself. Yet in the darkness, it governs the sky. The water exists even in the desert. Provision is present even when it was not reached in time. The tree still stands, not uprooted, not destroyed, but held beneath something eternal.

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” (Psalm 34:18)

I did not receive healing in a single moment. I painted toward it.

There is a difference between acceptance and closure. Acceptance says this happened. Closure says this no longer owns me.

When I finished that painting, I felt peace.

Not because the loss no longer mattered. Not because I forgot. Not because I stopped loving her.

But because I was no longer broken by anger. I was no longer replaying accusations in my mind. I was no longer carrying a weight that had already taken enough.

I was done.

And I was willing to move forward with the life God still has for me.

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to give you a future and a hope.” (Jeremiah 29:11)

Grief does not cancel calling. Loss does not erase purpose. Night does not extinguish light.

If you are carrying something you cannot quite pray through, consider creating your way through it. Choose one song that steadies your breathing. Let your colors match your emotion instead of your expectations. Move your arm freely and allow your body to release what your mouth cannot yet say. Do not aim for beauty. Aim for honesty. Step back and look at the whole before judging the parts.

We are made in the image of a Creator. When we create, even imperfectly, we reflect Him. Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is take what is trapped inside our chest and place it somewhere we can see it.

On canvas.

On wood.

On paper.

And then allow His light to meet it there.

If this post met you in a tender place and you would like to support The Healing Arts series, you can leave a tip at Buy Me a Coffee. Your support helps continue creating spaces where real healing can unfold.

And thank you for sitting in this with me.