Through the Valley

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

— Psalm 23:4

As I’ve been creating this painting, this passage has been resting quietly within my heart.

Not loudly.

Not as doctrine.

More like a steady presence moving beneath the layers of paint.

I’ve been reflecting on my dad’s journey, and my own journey as I witness and care for him.

And in many ways, the journeys all of us walk through as human beings here on earth.

Grief.

Love.

Fear.

Memory.

Loss.

Tenderness.

The strange ache of watching someone change while still recognizing the soul inside them.

I’ve begun to notice that my paintings are a kind of storytelling.

Not storytelling in a linear sense, but more like entering the inner landscape of the psyche itself. The visible and invisible worlds that exist inside a human being as we move through life.

Whatever spiritual language we use, there seem to be universal passages every soul encounters.

The wilderness.

The unraveling.

The remembering.

The longing to be held through uncertainty.

As my dad continues to change and require more care, we are preparing a space for him within our home.

And I keep thinking about what it means to create sanctuary for someone whose relationship with memory, time, and reality is becoming unstable.

How frightening that must feel at times.

The mind recedes inward.

Memories loosen.

Orientation shifts.

And yet beneath all of it, the essence of the person remains.

So much of this season has become an invitation to love beyond personality.

Beyond coherence.

Beyond roles.

Beyond the need to “fix” what cannot be fixed.

To simply remain present.

To walk with someone through the valley without abandoning them there.

I think this painting became part of that prayer.

A reflection of the inner terrain we all travel at some point in life — the beauty, the fragmentation, the animal instincts, the tenderness, the fear, the mystery, the unseen companionship that somehow carries us forward even in darkness.

And maybe that is what comforts me most about Psalm 23.

Not the promise that we avoid the valley.

But the reminder that we do not walk through it alone.