Why Quiet Things Have Become the Language of My Faith

People often ask me why the word whisper appears so often in my artwork, my writing, and throughout my website. It has become part of nearly everything I create, and if I'm honest, I don't think I chose the word as much as it found me. Over the years, I have come to realize that it isn't simply the theme of my artwork—it has become the language of my faith.

That may seem unusual at first. When most people think about God speaking, they often imagine dramatic moments, undeniable miracles, or life-changing events that leave no room for doubt. God certainly can work that way, and sometimes He does. But as I look back over my own life, I realize that He has most often met me in much quieter places.

Perhaps that is because my life has been marked by quiet places.

If I'm honest, my journey has been shrouded in grief, disappointment, heartache, and loss. Not just one difficult season tucked neatly into the past, but a lifetime of unexpected sorrows that have shaped the person I am today. There have been dreams that never became reality, prayers that seemed to remain unanswered, and people I loved with all my heart who are no longer here. Some losses happened suddenly. Others unfolded slowly over months and years, asking me to say goodbye one small piece at a time.

People often speak about "getting through" grief or "coming out on the other side." I understand what they mean, but I can't honestly tell you that story because it hasn't been mine. I don't feel as though I have ever emerged from the valley. In many ways, I still live there.

I still miss my husband, Jeff, every single day. I still grieve my brother. I still carry the ache of three adoptions that never brought children into our home. I still watch dementia slowly steal pieces of my mother while I have the privilege—and the heartbreak—of helping care for her. Alongside those deeply personal losses are the quieter disappointments that most people never see: the uncertainty of the future, the weight of building a business, financial concerns, unanswered questions, and the ongoing struggle to trust God when life continues to unfold differently than I had hoped.

There are days when grief feels like something I carry. There are other days when it feels as though it carries me.

I don't write these words because I have conquered sorrow or discovered the secret to healing. Quite the opposite. I write them because I am still learning what it means to walk faithfully with Christ while carrying a heart that remains deeply wounded. I suspect there are some losses I will carry until the day the Lord calls me Home, and that is not an easy reality to accept.

Yet somewhere in the middle of all of that, something unexpected began to happen.

God did not remove the grief, but He began meeting me within it. Not with explanations. Not with easy answers. Not by making everything okay again. Instead, He gently reminded me that He had never stopped being present.

Those reminders rarely came in dramatic ways. More often, they arrived through a passage of Scripture that spoke directly into my circumstances, through the kindness of a friend who had no idea how desperately I needed encouragement, through the beauty of His creation, or through a quiet sense of peace that settled over my anxious heart when nothing about my circumstances had changed.

Over time, I began calling those moments whispers.

I don't mean that God was giving me new revelation or hidden messages. In fact, one of the deepest convictions of my faith is that God's Word is what we know for certain. Scripture is complete, trustworthy, and sufficient. It is the solid foundation beneath my feet.

The whispers are something different. They are God's gracious reminders that lovingly draw my attention back to what He has already said.

That distinction has become incredibly important to me. I never want to build my faith upon feelings, circumstances, or signs. Those things can change from one day to the next. God's Word never changes. His promises remain true whether I feel them or not.

The whispers simply help me remember. When grief clouds my vision, they remind me that He is still near. When fear becomes overwhelming, they remind me that He is still faithful. When disappointment tempts me to believe He has forgotten me, they quietly point me back to the promises that have never changed.

Those whispers have never erased my sorrow. They have never answered every question. They have never removed the loneliness. But they have done something just as beautiful. They have given me enough strength to take one more step.

Looking back now, I don't think I have survived because my grief somehow became smaller. If anything, there have been seasons when it grew heavier. I believe I have survived because my glimpses of God became greater. They were often small, almost imperceptible moments, but together they became enough. Enough to keep believing. Enough to keep creating. Enough to keep hoping, even when hope felt fragile.

Perhaps that is why my artwork looks the way it does.

People sometimes assume that because my paintings are peaceful, my life must be peaceful too. The truth is that many of those peaceful places exist on my "canvas" before they ever exist in my heart. I don't paint because life has been easy. I paint because I need the reminder just as much as anyone else who looks at my work. In many ways, every painting is a quiet prayer that says, "Lord, help me remember."

Over the years I also noticed that my artwork became simpler. I found myself removing unnecessary details, softening the colors, leaving more open space, and allowing each painting room to breathe. At first I thought I was simply developing an artistic style. Now I wonder if God was quietly shaping something much deeper within me.

Whispers need room.

Noise fills every available space, but whispers invite us to slow down. They ask us to become still enough to notice what has been there all along. I think that is why I have gradually moved away from creating more and begun pursuing greater meaning instead. I no longer want my work to impress people. I want it to invite them to pause.

I have never felt called to teach from a stage. Instead, God placed a digital paintbrush in one hand and a pen in the other. My prayer has simply become that through both, He might gently point someone back to Himself.

If you spend any time exploring my artwork or reading my words, I hope you won't simply see paintings, cards, or books. I hope you'll find a quiet place to rest for a little while. A place where grief is welcome, questions are allowed, and no one expects you to pretend that everything is okay.

I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I still have questions that remain unanswered, and I still carry losses that have never stopped hurting. But I have learned this much: even in the deepest valleys, God has never stopped drawing near.

His Word is my certainty. The whispers are His gracious reminders. And somehow, those glimpses of His glory have been enough to help me keep walking, one faithful step at a time.