Daylight: Painting Resurrection in Golden Light

It began with a color I didn’t know how to love.

A yellow too warm, too forward, too much. It felt almost audacious — like light that refused to behave, that wouldn’t sit quietly on the canvas. I remember standing before the first study, brush hovering, wondering how to make this fierce hue feel like it belonged. But somewhere between hesitation and obedience, I realized: this was the invitation. To find beauty not by control, but by surrender. To learn what resurrection light actually looks like.

That’s how Daylight began — not as a concept, but as a conversation between color and calling.

For weeks I chased that color across canvases, pairing it with muted greens and fractured greys, letting it rise and spill and soften until it no longer felt foreign. Slowly, it began to preach: the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

What emerged was a collection that’s less about sunrise and more about redemption — a theology of light rendered through pigment and texture. Daylight speaks of hope not as ease but as defiance. Of light breaking through fracture. Of beauty as a form of resurrection.

Two paintings hold the heart of this series: Fracture and Resurgam.

Fracture began as a storm — violent, ruptured, the kind of break that arrives uninvited. Its movement is sudden, like a tornado touching down on still sand. The canvas split open under my brush, and I let it. It had to. Because before resurrection comes the tearing. Before the dawn, the dark.

And then Resurgam — Latin for “I shall rise.” A counterpoint and a promise. Darkness pressing in all around, but a single rooted light growing at the center. This is resurrection in paint: the steady, glowing insistence that life will return, that light has the final word.

In that dialogue — between fracture and rising — I began to understand the series not just as art, but as confession. Each piece is part of a redemptive history told in color: creation, fall, and resurrection refracted through light.

Some works are intimate, scaled small to fit the hand and home. Others are larger — commanding, radiant — meant to fill a room with presence. A couple stretch across canvas, more abstract than I’ve dared before, reaching toward mystery. Together they form a single meditation: that light, even fractured, still gathers itself and glows.

Right now, a few of these paintings hang in my own home. My children asked me, “Mama, why do you like to fill the house with pictures?” And I told them, “Because it’s beautiful, sweetheart. Beautiful.” But what I meant was: because beauty preaches. Because beauty reminds us that resurrection is not only true — it’s luminous.

Daylight will release this November, Lord willing. Until then, I’m living with the light — letting it spill across the studio floor, letting it preach to me again.

If these paintings speak to you, if you need a reminder that light still rises — I’d love for you to join the Early Access List. Come see the light before it’s released into the world.

Because resurrection isn’t only something to believe in. It’s something to behold.