Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Size: 12x16
Unframed Watercolour on Cotton, 2025
Winner of The BoldBrush Award | November 2025 BoldBrush Art Contest & Exhibit.
Winner of Best Artist Under 40, Salon Art Prize Feb/March 2026
In ancient times, the sea wasn't just water—it was chaos incarnate. A godlike force, simultaneously capable of great suffering, giving and taking life. Impersonal. Powerful. Terrifying. The ancients understood that anyone who could command such a force must have been the One who created it.
I can spend too much energy trying to avoid the chaos and suffering. I want to check out, pretend it's not that bad, live in denial. Yet I'm becoming more aware of how stuck I am—desperate for another way, but there isn't one. The only way through is straight into it.
God's way is rarely the easy path. It's usually the hard way, the impossible way—through waters that should drown us. We can't fight the sea, can't control it, can't avoid it, can't deny it, can't go around it. We've got to go through it. But here's what I keep learning: His way through the sea is never walked alone.
Passing through the impossible requires something beyond ourselves—someone who has walked through it before and will walk with us right now if we let them. Someone who sees chaos not as an obstacle, but as a path towards greater joy and freedom. The waters that threaten to overwhelm become the very place He chooses to reveal His presence.
Sometimes we put too much focus on the chaos itself, missing that through the chaos, pain, and suffering lies the path to freedom and life. The impossible becomes possible not because the circumstances change, but because we realize we were never meant to face them solo.
I've wanted to paint this for a while—the contrast of what's in focus versus what's not, the parts with energy and movement versus the parts with immovable chaos. This is the third in a series exploring sight, surrender, and trust—discovering that closing our eyes doesn't mean we're walking blind. Sometimes it means we're finally seeing clearly enough to know we don't walk alone.
Size: 12x16
Unframed Watercolour on Cotton, 2025
Winner of The BoldBrush Award | November 2025 BoldBrush Art Contest & Exhibit.
Winner of Best Artist Under 40, Salon Art Prize Feb/March 2026
In ancient times, the sea wasn't just water—it was chaos incarnate. A godlike force, simultaneously capable of great suffering, giving and taking life. Impersonal. Powerful. Terrifying. The ancients understood that anyone who could command such a force must have been the One who created it.
I can spend too much energy trying to avoid the chaos and suffering. I want to check out, pretend it's not that bad, live in denial. Yet I'm becoming more aware of how stuck I am—desperate for another way, but there isn't one. The only way through is straight into it.
God's way is rarely the easy path. It's usually the hard way, the impossible way—through waters that should drown us. We can't fight the sea, can't control it, can't avoid it, can't deny it, can't go around it. We've got to go through it. But here's what I keep learning: His way through the sea is never walked alone.
Passing through the impossible requires something beyond ourselves—someone who has walked through it before and will walk with us right now if we let them. Someone who sees chaos not as an obstacle, but as a path towards greater joy and freedom. The waters that threaten to overwhelm become the very place He chooses to reveal His presence.
Sometimes we put too much focus on the chaos itself, missing that through the chaos, pain, and suffering lies the path to freedom and life. The impossible becomes possible not because the circumstances change, but because we realize we were never meant to face them solo.
I've wanted to paint this for a while—the contrast of what's in focus versus what's not, the parts with energy and movement versus the parts with immovable chaos. This is the third in a series exploring sight, surrender, and trust—discovering that closing our eyes doesn't mean we're walking blind. Sometimes it means we're finally seeing clearly enough to know we don't walk alone.