As I spent time painting each day, I poured out my pain and watched it take form in vivid color before me. I found that after a few days of this practice, I was able to release that pain more readily each day; I was holding back less and less, and allowing myself to be more honest -- with myself and with God. I found that while the levels of pain I experienced didn't ease, and suffering didn't evaporate, I was able to carry it with a lighter touch. Expressing the struggle didn't eliminate it, but it did mean I wasn't holding all on my own anymore. I was handing it over to God, first in the act of painting and expressing it and then in writing the prayer that sprung from it. I was sharing each one on social media as I completed them, simply painting and prayer without additional commentary, and I was being met in the comments with compassion, shared suffering, and awe. By allowing the pain to move through me and alchemizing it into something beautiful, I was able to transform my own experience of suffering into something with deeper meaning.

God did not remain silent in the presence of my pain. As I painted in this contemplative approach, I prayed and God met me there, and sat with me in it. In the midst of my tears, I felt an acknowledgement of my grief. As I raged, I felt the solid presence of a God who does not flinch at righteous anger. As I cried out, I felt the warmth of God's love wrap around me. In this practice, I didn't get solutions or miraculous healing -- I got instead the constant, steady promise that God will always meet me in the middle of my mess. No tidy prayers, no put-together life required. I just have a standing invitation to meet with the God who knows my pain intimately, who hears my heart cry out, and who doesn't waver in the face of my big emotions.

As 2026 began, I thought back to this project often. The year started to unfold in turmoil and suffering that carried over when the calendar page flipped, and I started to wonder if these paintings and prayers could speak into the moment we're in now. We as a nation watched in horror as the violence escalated in Minnesota, and we all felt powerless before the evil forces at work before our eyes. My heart cried out and God met me there in that pain once more. The darkness may feel suffocating, but light will drive out darkness; beauty becomes an act of resistance. As I revisited this work to prepare it to share once more, I was struck by how powerfully they speak not only to my personal pain, but also to the collective cries of a people facing gross injustices. After all, our God not only was personally crucified, but was murdered by the powers of empire and oppression in an occupied land.

The collection is currently being framed and will be on loan to Canyon Lake United Methodist Church in Rapid City, South Dakota. If other churches are interested in having the collection displayed in the future, please reach out!