by Holly Graham
Fondly I remember
the process of finishing special puzzles as a child. My mother would oh so gently turn them over and tape them. Then we would frame them for my room. This didn't happen to all puzzles, only ones that, to us, were true art that we wanted to see always. The act of building the puzzle was rewarding but the real reward was being able to see it every day on the wall.
This happened a handful of times. All were puzzles created from the work of a single artist: James Christensen. To an anxious but creative child, Christensen's paintings provided a wealth of visual treasures. Each image featured an abundance of detail and imagination. For others, it may have been easy to glance at these images and move on. Not for me. I spent a lot of time peeking into a world that I knew nothing about. I was a spectator in a land not my own. These fantastical places and characters, the shapes their faces made, the lines their fingers created, became familiar, comforting.
"Fantasies of the Sea" by James Christensen
Detail of "Once Upon a Time" by James Christensen
Fondly I remember
seeing my children's faces for the first time. The road to starting a family had not been an easy one. Seeing their faces for the first time I was certain miracles were not taken captive by the Old and New Testaments, but could still blaze into our everyday lives.
I became a stay-at-home mom, something I am sure there must be a better name for, as we do not stay at home, and there are surely far more dignified ways we can describe that role. As they grew we decided homeschooling would be the best for them. So the sinew that formed between my children and I became stronger and stronger. Merriam-Webster suggests sinew is “the tissue that ties muscle to bone... a stabilizing unit.” That's exactly what had taken shape.
Fondly I remember
my grandmother sleeping beside me as I lay in her bed as a child. Her and my grandaddy would watch me sometimes. My grandaddy would sleep on the couch and I would sleep in their bed. After I had been asleep for a while I would hear her little feet shuffle in and she would lay gently beside me. And I felt peace.
After 67 years of marriage, precious Grandaddy went to glory. His fight with pancreatic cancer was more than his body could endure. Near the end I called Grandma on the phone, across the states that divided us, every day, to hear how he was. When he left us, I continued to pick up that phone. Each and every day I got to hear her voice. Each and every day I got to learn more about her. Her past, her present, her opinions, her friendships, her stories, her... everything.
Dementia. Like many things that are a product of a broken world, it is hard to understand why it has to be a reality. But it hit my grandmother and it hit her hard. For her protection and for her to have the best care, she had to be moved to a wonderful care facility designed just for memory loss. In the transition, I simply could not talk to her on the phone as regularly as I liked. My heart ached. I wanted to be with her. I wanted to know how she was feeling. I wanted to know how the world seemed to her, how she felt about all this. I longed to hear what her birds and squirrels had done that day. I longed to hear how her favorite baseball team had done on that day's game. I just... longed.
Anxiety is a dark spirit that has plagued me since a young age. I was taken to the doctor for tests at age eight because I was having physical issues. My diagnosis was a manifestation of complications of stress. The doctor asked “why is an eight year old so stressed?” Throughout life, it would find ways to insert itself. When I was sixteen driving meant freedom, but later in life, anxiety had wrapped its fingers around that as well. Driving alone long distances or to somewhere I had never been had become something so fearful it was debilitating. I also did not like driving in heavy rain which left me feeling claustrophobic. Anxiety also wove its web in the thought of leaving my children. The sinew mentioned before was well-formed and I was just as dependent upon them as they were upon me. It had been so hard to have them, I never wanted to be separated from them.
But then there was the longing. The longing to just be in the same room as my dear friend and grandmother. Which was met with anxiety's response: “You would have to leave your children. You can't be without them. You would have to drive a very long distance. Alone. It's impossible.”
And then I decided I had missed enough in life at the hands of anxiety. Events and opportunities I can never get back and often regretted. I had to break this cycle.
The first sight my eyes saw as I left the driveway was my children in the glass door waving goodbye. I started shaking, feeling like I couldn't breathe. I just started saying “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” I traveled down the road and as I turned to get on the interstate, a tall dark ominous cloudy sky met me. Like a bully the enemy was pulling out every tried and true tool to get me to fail. I said “Jesus help me!” He said to me “Your comfort is not in your family. Your comfort is not in your circumstances. Your comfort is in Me.” The rain began to pour. It was thick, I couldn't see in front of me, and it stayed for my whole trip. My enemy was all around me, trying to suffocate me. But in my car, I petitioned for God to stay near and He, as always, was faithful.
I emerged from the experience victorious. It was the sweetest kind of victory—the kind that we cannot create ourselves but the kind that is handed to us by a gracious and merciful Savior. A Savior who sees our weight that we carry and says “let me exchange that for lightness of spirit.”
I had been marked from this experience. As a visual thinker I wanted an image to represent this triumph, this death of captivity, and He brought it right to mind. It had been present in my room as a child. I had studied it at great length. Frantically I tried to find it to see if it would apply. Surely as He is good, it was perfect.
"Afternoon Outing in a Small Boat with Owl" by James Christensen
A girl, with love on her sleeve, traveling downstream. The water and wood surrounding her are dark. Her umbrella is up. She feels like a fish out of water, but there is One right there beside her who represents wisdom. Honestly He is bigger than the vessel allows, but He has made himself fit in order to be with her. I understood that at the helm was wine and a snail. But I liked to think of it as communion. Right in her view as she travels is a reminder of the blood and the body that had been given on her behalf, so that fear couldn't touch her.
I had this tattooed to my leg. Then a year or so later, I found a button in an old bag of mine that my husband must've made for me years ago that I hadn't remembered. It featured the exact same painting. It was like God, my Creator and Friend, was saying, “Hey, remember our road trip?” I set it up in my office as an altar to the idea that no giant can stand up to His power. They can threaten but they cannot sustain the might of a Father who's child has called out for help.
Holly Graham is a Virginia native who earned a BFA from Longwood University. She has held professional appointments in the photographic, curatorial, and art management fields. Four books have been published featuring Holly’s illustrations and one book featuring her “New Life Doll Project” photographic series. Holly is a multidisciplinary exhibiting artist, creating work with a goal of bringing joy, comfort and/or encouragement to others. She currently lives in Kentucky with her husband and two children, whom she homeschools while making art.
You can view her work by visiting hollymgraham.com.
This post is part of an ongoing series where we ask artists and arts professionals to share artwork that has significantly impacted their formation as a Christian.