This painting came from deep inside of me where self-doubt sometimes whispers louder than truth.
The boy in this piece... he feels small, unsure, like he's already failed before he's even begun. His shoulders slope with invisible weight, and his eyes fall...not in shame, but in quiet discouragement. I've known that feeling. Maybe you have too. That ache of wondering if you're enough. If you're seen.
And yet, there is the Savior right there with him. Not standing over him in majesty, but kneeling, level, meeting his eyes. There's no lecture. No list of shoulds. Just presence. Stillness. Assurance. His hand rests gently, as if to say, "I know who you are, even when you don't remember."
The eucalyptus trees mattered to me. They're always shedding. Their bark peels away, sometimes in long curls, other times in patchy layers. They're raw, real, unpolished. And still, they grow strong. I see myself in that. Layers coming off...insecurities, old stories, perfectionism. And I like to imagine the Savior doesn't mind the mess of it. He sees through the layers. He sees the core.
And sometimes, in that sacred quiet, He whispers not just comfort, but direction. Even when we can't put words to the restlessness inside us... when we don't know why we feel off or overwhelmed or not quite ourselves... He does.
He knows. And He gently shows us the way through. Past the confusion. Past the noise. Past even our own misunderstanding of what we need.
He sorts through the heaviness with us. Lifts it piece by piece. He clears the clutter in our minds and breathes light into our hearts.
That's the heart of this piece. It's not just a picture of Christ with a child. It's a moment, a holy one, when the Savior looks past everything we think disqualifies us, and instead quietly calls us worthy. Then, hand over heart, He begins to lead us forward. Gently. Wisely. Lovingly.
Sometimes the most sacred reassurance isn't loud. It's in the hush of a grove, where bark peels, light filters in, and love sits down beside you...and stays.
