The Colors Between
Some days, I feel like my paintbrush understands me better than people do.
I’ve always been a creative soul—an artist, a homeschool mom, a wife, and a woman who loves Jesus with all her heart. But I’ve also learned that walking with faith in today’s world can look very different depending on who you ask.
Over the years, I’ve found it hard to fit neatly into the boxes that others seem comfortable living in. I love my friends, who live by strong religious convictions, and I deeply respect their devotion. But sometimes, their world feels small—one where everything is either “right” or “wrong,” “safe” or “dangerous.”
For me, faith has always been more like art—alive, layered, and full of color.
When I teach my children at home, we read scripture and talk about Jesus not as a distant figure but as a living teacher of love, courage, and truth. I want them to know what He stood for—not just to memorize verses, but to live them. I want them to see the world with open eyes and brave hearts, not hidden behind walls of fear.
Yes, the world can be dark at times. But how will my children know how to shine if they never step into it? There was a time I tried hard to blend in—to sit quietly in Bible studies and nod along when others said we must “protect our children from the world.” But inside, I felt something different. I don’t believe Jesus called us to hide. I believe He called us to shine.
The Colors Between - A Story of Faith, Friendship, and Finding Her Way
A short story
She never meant to stand out. It just happened. Like how paint runs together on a wet canvas, forming new colors no one expected. In a town where belief was often drawn in black and white, she lived somewhere in the in-between where grace had texture, and faith felt more like an open sky than a narrow road. Her friends loved her, but sometimes her art—her way of seeing the world—made them uncomfortable. Yet she couldn’t help it. Every brushstroke was a prayer, every shade a story. And somewhere between the colors, she hoped to find a place where she—and her faith—belonged.
She was an artist with paint always under her fingernails and dreams that rarely fit inside lines. Her days began with sunlight pooling across her kitchen table, where her son worked through math problems between watercolor strokes and scripture readings. Homeschool wasn’t just school for them, it was life, blended like the colors on her palette.
Her faith was the quiet kind, steady as breath. She believed in Jesus, not just as a symbol, but as a teacher of compassion, courage, and truth. Yet in her small town, where Sunday service was a social performance as much as a spiritual one, her way of living didn’t always fit.
She tried joining women’s groups and Bible studies, but talk often turned to rules, appearances, and who was or wasn’t “doing it right.” She loved these women, but sometimes their words-built walls instead of bridges. “The world is lost,” they’d say. “We must protect our children from it.”
She would smile softly and stir her coffee, hearing her son in the next room humming a song from a movie they weren’t “supposed” to watch. She didn’t want to hide the world from her children—she wanted to show them how to walk through it with kindness, eyes open, hearts anchored.
When she painted, she prayed. Each brushstroke was a conversation—about grace, about how light touches darkness without fear. Her art was her ministry, though few understood it that way.
One day, at a local art fair, a mother stopped to admire her painting of a cross shining through storm clouds. “It’s beautiful,” the woman said quietly. “It feels… honest.”
She smiled. “That’s what I hope my kids learn,” she replied. “That faith isn’t about pretending the storm isn’t there—it’s about finding the light that still breaks through.”
For the first time in a while, she felt seen—not just as a Christian, or a homeschool mom, or an artist—but as herself.
And maybe, she thought, that’s how true friendship begins—not in sameness, but in seeing one another fully, just as Christ does.
