Mourning to Dancing.

Community, 12x12 Watercolor on Canvas

Behind the collection.

Psalm 30:11-12 . . . You have turned my mourning into dancing; You have loosed my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness, that my glory may sing Your praise and not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give thanks to You forever!

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There are many parts to this story, and I have never been able to articulate them clearly with words. It all makes more sense when I paint. As I trust my hands and my God-given gifts and talents, my story unfolds in watercolor. I am able to slow and relive and understand my experiences in a new way as the paint coats the canvas.

It all began in the angst of being sixteen. In an effort to not be a burden and to be as “easy” as I could on those around me, I hadn’t opened my eyes to my emotions or the things I needed to process from early childhood. Nothing terrible ever happened to me. I wasn’t raped or abused. I had good parents and wonderful friends. I experienced joy and peace as fruit of my faith. But I was the only girl, the middle child with four brothers. My older brothers fought and my younger brothers had special needs, so I called on myself to be the easy one.

My family experience overflowed into other relationships. With friends I was deceptive in order to please. I never wanted to ruffle feathers. In romantic flings, I allowed guys to believe I cared more about them than I did. This deception wasn’t intentional; it overflowed from self-deception. I deceived myself into believing that I didn’t have emotions, that I couldn’t be hurt and that I didn’t have any needs. I didn’t expect anything from others., but expected lots of myself. I tried to convince myself and others that I was always fun and easy to be around.

Combine teenage angst and a genetic predisposition to depression with the reality of my self deception and I began to fall. At 17 I hit rock bottom. It was evident that I had emotions and needs. I was hurting. But to keep up my front, I bottled it up and let no one in.

I felt buried under a dark cloud for a long time. I can’t even remember how long. Then I broke.

One afternoon, I climbed into my car. Taking a deep breath I pulled off our street and turned left. It was a familiar place but a new feeling. My mind was on one thing: Life would be easier for everyone else if they didn’t have to deal with me. I pushed my foot to the pedal.

Harder.

Faster.

I raced through a red light and was “awoken” by an enormous sound. The car shook and my head began to clear. Suddenly, I lost power steering and the car turned off. I slowed and pulled over in tears. I was alone in this place.

Then, there was a tap on my window. Glazed over from hysteria, I looked up to see a friend standing there. He helped me out of the car and drove me home. For months before, he had oddly followed me around like a big brother to make sure I got home. That day, he was there to carry me. This was the reality of my community. Community played a huge part in my healing.

I wish I could say there was a moment where I simply felt free, when something clicked and I felt better, but that’s not the case. There are no clear lines in my story of restoration. There is no clear moment of healing. It was a slow and quiet change. Slowly, on some days, in some moments, I started to see light. I started to feel hope. I started to heal. It was like I was slowly floating, slowly being lifted out of the darkness. I started growing and experiencing beauty once again.

There were still dark days. There are still dark days. But eventually there was truth in the sentiment, that like spring, after a destructive winter, life was returning. I am being restored.

Most of that season is a blur. Yet, specific emotions, experiences, and days stick out. As I paint, more healing has occurred. As I paint, the beauty is revealed.

I wouldn’t change my story for anything. The beauty that emerges from the ashes is well worth the growing pains. The years of pain and darkness have brought me to where I am. I’m still broken. I’m still battling. But there has been growth. There is an understanding of where the pain comes from and how to heal. There is a joy even in the trials because I hold a story that allows me to love others more fully.

My life has been enhanced by the brokenness I have experienced. Without breaking I wouldn’t understand grace. Without sorrow I wouldn’t appreciate joy. Without sackcloth, gladness would be bland. Life is more beautiful because of pain.

My hope is that my story sheds some light on mental illness.

That my story will sing praise.

That others feel some freedom in knowing they’re not alone.

That I’ll continue to grow and learn and understand that I’ve been created with emotions, needs, and limits.

That you’ll find hear my heart and see the beauty of my story in my artwork.

My hope is that this collection of artwork will bless your heart and your home and help you see the beauty in your own story.