The Healing Power of Paying Attention

How Art Helped Me Find Peace and Changed the Way I See the World

There are seasons in life when we don't pick up a paintbrush because we want to become better artists. We pick it up because we're trying to find ourselves again.

That was certainly true for me.

Several years ago, I found myself walking through one of the hardest seasons of my life. I was working full-time as a publisher, carrying on with meetings, deadlines, and the demands of everyday life. From the outside, everything appeared normal. But inside, my mind never seemed to stop spinning. My anxiety had reached a level I'd never experienced before, and I desperately needed a place where I could simply breathe again.

Then an old memory came rushing back.

When I was seventeen years old, my dad passed away. Somehow, I instinctively turned to creating. I spent hours at my art table, moving the sorrow and darkness from my heart onto the page. Somehow, putting color on paper quieted emotions that felt too overwhelming for words. Art became a safe place where grief slowly gave way to healing.

Thirty-five years later, I found myself hoping it could do the same thing again.

So I picked up a paintbrush—not because I had grand plans of becoming a professional artist, but because I needed peace, and I needed to find myself once more.

Something beautiful began to happen.

Every brushstroke slowed my breathing. Every layer of color untangled thoughts I couldn't seem to organize on my own. Painting didn't erase the pain, but it gave my heart somewhere to rest while healing quietly began.

Looking back now, I can see that God had been preparing me for this long before I ever returned to painting.

Years earlier, when my two older children were teenagers, I purchased my first (used) DSLR camera. What started as curiosity eventually grew into a photography business, but photography gave me something far more valuable than a career. It taught me to chase light.

I learned how morning light feels different from evening light, how shadows create depth, and how the smallest shift in sunlight can completely transform what we see. Photography trained my eyes to observe the world more carefully.

Painting added a different dimension to my creative journey.

It taught me to be fully present.

As I slowed down enough to really study a flower, a pear, or the changing light across a tabletop, I began noticing beauty that had always been there. Tiny wildflowers growing beside the sidewalk. The warm glow of sunlight spilling across my kitchen table. The weathered texture of an old garden gate. The faithful way sunflowers turn toward the light.

The world didn't suddenly become more beautiful.

I simply slowed down enough to notice it.

I've come to believe the same is true in our spiritual lives. God rarely forces His way into our attention. More often, He whispers. He reveals Himself through ordinary moments that are easy to overlook if we're always rushing toward the next thing.

That realization has quietly found its way into my paintings.

As I worked on my recent oil painting, Invitation, I became frustrated because the light wasn't shining the way I had imagined. The colors felt flat, almost muddy. After wrestling with it for a while, I finally stepped away from the easel for several days and prayed that God would show me what the painting needed.

When I returned, the answer became obvious.

It didn't need more light.

It needed deeper shadows.

Only after strengthening the shadows did the light begin to glow.

That lesson stayed with me long after the painting was finished.

Isn't life often the same? Joy becomes sweeter because we've known sorrow. Hope shines brighter because we've experienced disappointment. Faith grows stronger because we've walked through seasons where we couldn't yet see what God was doing beneath the surface.

I've realized that every painting begins long before I ever pick up a brush. It begins with a walk, a conversation, a verse that lingers in my heart, a quiet prayer, or an ordinary moment that suddenly feels sacred.

The painting is simply the final expression of something God first invited me to notice.

Perhaps that's why I love creating art for the home.

Home is where life unfolds. It's where we gather around the table, share meals, read Scripture, pour another cup of tea, and watch the morning light move across the floor. It's where ordinary moments quietly become holy ones.

My prayer is that every painting I create becomes more than something beautiful to hang on a wall. I hope it gently reminds someone to slow down, breathe deeply, and notice the beauty that has been there all along. More than anything, I hope it reminds them that God's presence is often found not only in life's extraordinary moments, but in the ordinary ones offered back to Him with grateful hearts.

Because beauty is rarely absent.

More often, it's simply waiting to be noticed.

Practice Paying Attention

Before today is over, step outside for five quiet minutes. Leave your phone inside. Look for one thing you've never really noticed before. Maybe it's the way evening light filters through the trees, a tiny flower growing where no one planted it, or the song of a bird you've stopped hearing.

Then pause for just a moment and thank God for it.

I'd love to know what you discover.

Because I have a feeling the art of paying attention doesn't just make us better artists.

It helps us become more grateful people.