Carried by Beauty
Faith, Fear, and the Stillness of the Sea
So I did a thing today.
It’s something that I haven’t done in a very long time. I went “full analog” on a painting. I used a watercolor set (sold by Tobio’s) that I had received as a gift in our family’s “secret Santa” exchange on December 25. And here we are, January 15; this is my first time taking it out of the packaging.
This artwork is unlike the art in my other posts; those are digital paintings created on an iPad with the Procreate app. This is the real deal...no Command-Z, no digital layering, nothing RGB about it.
I don’t know if it’s been a matter of resistance, of believing I’m too busy, of fear, or even of imposter syndrome. But today something was different.
I woke up at 5:34 a.m. (thanks for the data point, Whoop tracker). I tried to roll over, wanting to sleep until 7:30 or so. Still, the thoughts of the day, containing brokenness, sorrow, fear, my business, my marketing abilities, and my own “precious” reputation, began to assault my first five minutes of consciousness. So rather than allow the seeds of these tumultuous thoughts to germinate…
I opted to go downstairs and sit with The Maker.
The Storm Clears
One of the calming thoughts amid this storm and assault of anxiety was how beautiful the sunrise was on the Atlantic, where I spent the majority of my formative years. I grew up just south of the Chesapeake Bay, six blocks off the ocean in a little town called Virginia Beach.
And before you say, “Oh, it must have been great to be a surfer-dude,” I didn’t learn to swim until I was 16. Ironically, the name Marvin is Welsh for “friend of the sea.” Go figure.
I have many memories of the Atlantic Ocean. The view directly east went on to the horizon. Glancing to the left, you would see the northern part of the coast, then to the right, the southern coast stretching to Back Bay. There was Rudee Inlet, a marina where yachts and dinghies were lashed to old pylons driven deep into the murky waters.
But the thing that always captivated my attention was the ever-changing beauty of the ocean.
The Majestic and Unpredictable
Some days it looked like a quarry of slate, gray and foreboding, churned into foam and whitecaps. The choppy waves dart back and forth and charge one another like a rousing game of red rover; one swell overcomes the other as if they were in competition. On other days, it would display a most amazing, almost translucent hue of aquamarine, reflecting the unending sky and clouds above. And it could vary at any moment.
I recall one occasion when I went jogging on the boardwalk (in my early twenties, when “jogging days” were my norm). Returning to my oceanfront apartment, I noticed the water was as smooth as glass; I had not seen it this calm before, and not since. The sea was still and mirror-like, reflecting the pre-dawn and starless canopy above. The sun had not yet climbed above the horizon, but there was a warm glow where the sky and the sea kissed.
There I was, standing at the waterfront enjoying the view. The stillness beckoned me; the cool water invited me after a warm run. And I stripped off my shirt, kicked off my shoes and socks, and ran to where the water hit the sand, churning the water with my stride. I became a six-year-old boy stripped down to his shorts, diving into the Atlantic Ocean.
Held and Cradled
I swam out about 30 or 40 yards from the shore and flipped to my back, looking at the sky above. It was at this moment that I considered how the ocean could reflect the nature of The Maker.
The vast deep is not something humans can tame. It’s something dangerous. I nearly drowned twice beneath the very surface on which I now floated. As a two-year-old child and a 15-year-old boy, the waves and the riptide took me. I was betrayed by what I had taken for granted: the powerful deep.
But now I was effortlessly drifting. There was no danger, only peace. Floating on your back in the ocean is like nothing else, particularly when it’s this calm; the faint taste of salt on your lips, the gentle rocking from a slow tide ever so slightly lifting and lowering you, as if you’re being rocked to sleep.
And it struck me in that moment—is not The Maker the One who carries us each day we draw breath and beyond?
The Maker and the Sea
I realized that the ocean taught me something about The Maker. Not because it is predicatble, but because it is not. Its depths resist explanation but invite exploration. Its surface moves and churns without warning. It can rage. It can rest. It can hold, support, and soothe.
I’ve experienced the ocean’s stormy side. Nor’easters that turned the sky dark, churning the surface into a vortex of fury with wind strong enough to lean against. Sand lashing your skin, blinding you with an unexpected assault. Air that feels sharp as a knife stabbing your lungs. You don’t admire the sea in those moments; you survive it.
But I’ve also known its mercy.
The still days. The calm ones. When the Atlantic becomes a cradle and holds you just above the surface. Your ears are underwater. Sound gone. The world reduced to breath and heartbeat. In that quiet, I knew what it meant to be carried. I was held. Rocked. Kept.
It felt as if The Maker Himself was near—not loudly, not dramatically—but present. Whispering what the soul needs most to hear: I see you. I love you. I’ll never let you go.
That memory reminds me that the maker holds us. The maker cradles us, the maker comforts us and protects us; we need not fear, and we need not worry.
Because we are His and He is ours.
Turning Inward
What storms have shaped the way you relate to safety, trust, or rest?
When was the last time you allowed yourself to stop and be held?
What part of your life feels most in need of quiet right now?
Today’s Kingdom Artifact
A small watercolor I painted by hand from memory, using the gift of a simple travel set. The scene shows clouds drifting slowly across the sky above a relatively calm ocean horizon. The colors are soft and layered, with blues, greens, and hints of yellow and terra-cotta. Its size invites you to slow down and look closely. It was made without undo buttons or digital tools—just time, attention, and quiet; a stillness that was today’s gift of The Maker.
The Studio
The Studio is part of the paid rhythm—thank you for making this work possible!
