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In Scar, a weathered fig tree stands with its wounds exposed. Its hollowed trunk and marked bark carry the history of what it has endured, while fruit quietly emerges from a surviving branch. At its roots, a burning newspaper declares patience dead, even as the tree above it continues to bear life.
The journey between planting and harvest can change us. We encounter loss, disappointment, and long stretches when the care we have given seems to produce nothing. We may begin to question what we planted years ago, forgetting that growth has been taking place beyond what we can see.
This painting holds the scars and the fruit together. Time has not erased every wound, yet the tree still has something to give. What was planted in an earlier season has matured into nourishment for the present—a reminder that the work of our past can bear fruit long after we expected it to.
As part of the Fruits of the Spirit collection, Scar reflects on patience as the faith to keep tending what God has entrusted to us. The harvest may find us weathered, carrying scars we never expected when we first planted the seed. Yet, in time, the tree we nurtured through seasons of uncertainty begins to bear fruit, offering sweetness from the very branches that still remember the storm.
In Company, a grapevine crosses prison bars, offering sweetness in a place of isolation. Perhaps it reaches inward to nourish someone forgotten. Or perhaps the prisoner grew it himself, extending kindness from the very place he longs to escape.
The work echoes Paul’s letters from prison, carrying encouragement beyond the walls that confined him. Part of the Fruits of the Spirit collection, Company asks us to consider what we can still offer while enduring hardships of our own. Even here, something good can grow, and someone else can be nourished by it. Grapes being the easiest fruit to share.
I used to expect joy to feel more exciting than it did.
My relationship with joy felt a little bland until I began to understand its quieter purpose. Sometimes joy is like nourishment when you’re feeling depleted: something you must continue receiving, even when the change is too gradual to notice.
In The Fix, the orange represents that daily return. I think of it like reaching for vitamin C when I’m feeling sick, with the anticipation of feeling better. That is how I am learning to practice joy: making room for it, returning to what nourishes my spirit, and trusting that something is happening even when I cannot feel it immediately.
The simplicity of this painting is part of its meaning. I wanted to focus on the consistency and purpose of joy—the willingness to keep showing up without needing every moment to be exciting. In my own life, returning to joy has helped me find the strength to begin again, often quietly, often slowly.
Part of the Fruits of the Spirit collection, The Fix reflects on the anticipation of something good still ahead. Sometimes that anticipation is enough to move us—to do the work, to care for what is growing, and to keep going until we can see what we have been hoping for.