After raising four children, the house grew quiet.
One day I found myself looking at the walls.
They felt unfinished.
Not because they needed another coat of paint.
Because they had nothing to say.
I didn't set out to become an artist.
I simply wanted to fill my home with paintings that reminded me what mattered most.
So I picked up a paintbrush.
The first painting led to another.
Then another.
With every painting, I wondered if I could possibly love the next one as much as the last.
I always do.
I've realized that I don't fall in love with paint.
I fall in love with the story.
A little boy trying to get his toe into a bucket of bubbles.
Six year old girl friends pulling each other close at a birthday party.
A little gang of boys waiting for their first track meet.
The quiet ways people love one another.
Those are the paintings I want to live with.
I hope you'll want to live with them, too.