Painted in Pain; Lit by Glory

Updated: Sep 3

You’ve read my words, but I began speaking with color, texture, and a camera first, creating narrative-style artwork to tell a story - her story.

I held her when she was born, felt her fingers embrace my hand.

Before pain made a home in her bones, before doctors and diagnoses.

Then came the ache that my kiss could not cure.

A silent, searing war beneath her skin.

The kind that bends bones and tests all belief.

She learned to count pain by hours and measure hope in breaths.

But she never cursed the sky. She never let the darkness rewrite her soul.

Scripture turned into lullabies for nights when sleep wouldn’t come.

I watched her body betray her.

I watched it try to dim her light.

But it never died.

Because something eternal was fueling her strength.

I stood on the sidelines, sometimes strong, sometimes shattered.

Watching a child become a warrior in slow motion.

Her story is not one of defeat. It is not a tragedy.

It’s a testimony.

And I get to witness that miracle every day.

Faithful Writers