Finding Hope in Laughter and Lamentation Alike

"Lamentation is a part of worship. It is that part of us that cries out over the sorrow of the suffering, pain, and relational brokenness by which we have all been hurt.

...if the Lord walks there with me, what possible advantage could there be in conjuring another way?"

-Russ Ramsey,  One Christian’s Reflections on Encountering Death



I read an article about a man's lamentations and suffering with Christ. And interestingly, it brought me relief.

It doesn't really make sense considering the circumstances: Within the past few months, my husband and I took a 3 week trip in Europe that we didn't have to pay for. We just bought a house with a down payment that was given to us free of charge. After closing on the home, Nooch and I ended up with double in our savings account despite the fact that I have not had a job for the past year.

One day on our trip oversees, I had overwhelming joy looking at these blessings. Praising Jesus. Amazed at his provision.

After all, doesn't all that sound like favor from God? Many would say so.

But deep down —even though I am genuinely grateful for these circumstances —something didn't sit well inside of me. 

Because it's easy to praise God when I get the things I want.

And while these things are all blessings, it's easy to forget that they are not the point.

That God is not a genie that grants me my desires.
That my perspective of my Good Father is not dependent upon my circumstances, whether lovely or painful.
That the hard times remind me that even sunny days come and go, allowing me to appreciate them while they are here, and letting them go when the time comes.

I think I felt uneasy because I know deep down that the Kingdom of God is not grown according to the state of my well-being.

God's favor is not reflective of me getting what I think is best for my life. But when I forget that truth, a fear of losing the blessings grows within me. And I remember the harder times and the insecurity that comes with it.
And I begin to fear what life is like when things don't go my way.

So, I read about a man's encounter with Jesus in the midst of death and sorrow, and it filled me with hope.

"The Lord does not owe me a pain-free life.
But he does promise to be with me in it."

I remember I was sitting in the backseat of a car as we drove along the French countryside while I read those words by Russ Ramsey.

It reminded me that my hope is not dependent on the wonderful things that have happened these past couple of months. They won't last forever, and that's okay. 

It reminded me of the way I wrestled in frustration with God last summer, when I felt called to quit my job. It made this year's provision all the sweeter.

It reminded me of the closeness of Jesus at the news of my father's cancer diagnosis last fall. During my grief, my heart was comforted like never before.

It reminded me that scripture calls Jesus a man of sorrows. That despite that natural desire to avoid pain at all costs, He embraced it. 

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A year ago, I would have been afraid to talk about suffering.

Today, it gives me hope to accept this beautiful reality.

I've tasted the hard times, the breaking of my heart. I've been a weary traveller on my life's journey, and I'm sure I'll be one again and again.

I've tasted the times of rest and growth and dreams that came alive. And I don't fear losing these good times, because my soul is satisfied in my Good Father —the One who waits embraces me in laughter and lamentation alike.

Permission to Simplify (& why I've stopped painting)

Back in my small hometown, I was known as that artist girl.

In high school, I'd been in the local newspaper a few times for awards I'd received for my paintings, and I had some pieces displayed in local galleries as well.

On my visit home this past summer, even though it had been 4 years since I've moved away, someone on the street recognized me.

"You're that artist girl right? I remember you!"

It was a sweet gesture, and I smiled and nodded.

But I didn't tell her that it's been almost 2 years since I've painted a portrait.

I didn't tell her about how painting became less of a creative outlet and more of a challenge I wanted to win. How each painting was supposed to be better than the last, on a larger canvas, with more complicated mediums and compositions because I wanted the recognition for my hard work. 

And in the end, it exhausted me.

But I guess I haven't been totally honest —I did paint once since my last art show. Around this time last year, I found out that my dad had cancer, and I didn't have words to describe how I felt.

So I painted watercolor flowers.
Three poinsettias, on a white piece of paper.
Just for me.

For whatever reason, I needed the simple strokes of a brush and color to give my heart the space to speak. That's probably the point of art; I just didn't realize it until now.

  A watercolor portrait of my younger sister. 

A watercolor portrait of my younger sister. 


I have a tendency to run from simplicity.

Maybe it's because I secretly believe that the end product is worth more if the process is complicated or difficult.

Simplicity seems too easy. Like it doesn't produce anything special.
It doesn't produce enough.

But that's not true at all.

The thing is, there's something healing about simplicity.

When something hurts, we must simplify. If it's the body, we have to simplify our movements. The stomach, we simplify food. The mind, we simply lessen the input to give our heads a break.

I don't know about you, but living in a world that is constantly wanting more and better and bigger has left me hurt and exhausted. 

And there's something inside me that is longing to simplify.

To be okay with less. To rest more. To let things heal and be reset as they should be.

To look at my life and the things I create and see that it is all enough as it is, even in it's simplest form.

  Her name is  Curls.  She's one of my favorite paintings.

Her name is Curls. She's one of my favorite paintings.


While walking around town with some friends last fall, one of them, an artist, stopped to look inside the window of a gallery.

"Jeana, your work is better than this," he said, almost with exasperation. "You need to be putting yourself out there!"

Again, I smiled and nodded. I could tell that it seemed wasteful to him for me not to paint.

But a year later, I'm realizing that I've needed to just let this love for art have the time to grow into something new. I needed a break in order to fall in love with my art again. And hopefully when I start painting again, it can be from a place of creativity and expression, instead of output and expectation.

Because in the end, I think that we all need simplicity to function well. It's what allows us to produce the better things, in simpler, organic ways.

Just as artisan foods tend to have less ingredients, created in a process that requires longer and more thoughtful work, maybe our lives could use a little simplicity in order to be made whole and well.

Like a simple, slow, artisan life. 

The Power of Slow and Small Moments

"...Once you've pursued Him through throngs of people to grab hold of the hem of his cloak and He has turned to face you and acknowledged your faith by performing great miracles in your life, the idea of fading back into the crowd and going back to business as usual just no longer appeals."

I'm not one of those people that has undergone a miraculous physical healing.

That's just not my story. But I have had moments of making my way to the Savior, seeking His healing touch.

And I have had one particular moment where He seemed to push through my crowded life to make His way to me. And I haven't been the same since.



When I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed that I was 10 minutes early for work. Which was odd because I was normally 5 minutes late for work everyday. But I digress. 

This was about 3 years ago or so. Life was busy —I was a newlywed in a new city working and going to college. But all of a sudden, I had 10 minutes to spare. (And I didn't want to use that time to be early for work —spare time was a precious commodity.)

There was an old CD in the car somewhere with one of my favorite songs, "How He Loves." So I thought, why not have some Jesus time before work? I love Him, we hadn't spent much time together the past several months, so maybe we could catch up for a few minutes.

The C note rang from my speakers as the song began. I closed my eyes. 

“Jesus, I’m sorry it’s been so long…” But then my thoughts were interrupted.

“Stop. It’s okay.”

“Really, I…”

“Stop. I love you, and I’ve missed you. You don’t need to say anything. Let me speak.”

And so I did.

And He spoke to my heart, as present as if He was there sitting in my passenger seat.

And I could try to explain how Jesus spoke. How His love overwhelmed me and filled the entire space. How the tears began to flow immediately. But all I know is that Jesus was there, closer than my very breath, speaking loving kindness into my soul.

First, He filled me with all the joy I'd experienced in my marriage and reminded me that it was a gift from him. I was so overwhelmed with His love, I could practically feel him saying "Jeana, I love you so much! This is a blessing from me.” His love was like a hurricane, as the song says. I was bent beneath the weight of His wind and mercy.

Then He showed me my hurt from the past and present. My anxieties that have left me cynical and paralyzed with fear. Exposing lies I've believed about myself. My tears of joy turned into tears of hurt, like Jesus was lifting up a bandage on a wound I've tried to hide.

"You've been living with a thorn in your side, and it has kept you from truly living. I'm going to remove this, and it will set you free to live a life of joy."

And I wept right there in the parking lot of the shopping center.

All I offered Jesus was 10 minutes. In return, He spoke healing into my heart that has forever changed me.

Sometimes I can't help but think that He was sitting in the passenger seat everyday as I drove to work, waiting patiently for me to just turn my face to Him.



That day turned out to be the beginning.

The beginning of a new way of listening to Jesus and making space for Him to speak. 
Of acknowledging hurt that I had buried deep in my heart.
Of trusting and believing that when I reached out my hand to touch the Living God, He would turn my way and heal me. And not only heal, but cry with me through the hurt and everything in between.

It's what led me to take a year of rest —and ultimately to write on this blog.

That day taught me the power of slow and small moments and how God is always waiting to meet us where we are.

It doesn't matter if we're in church, washing dishes in the kitchen, or commuting to work —He is actually, seriously, and legitimately always with us.

And He is longing to speak love over you. Because He sees you and knows you and doesn't want you limping around with this thorn in your side, either.

And really, this walk with Jesus has been like any other friendship. The more time I’ve spent with Him, the more I’ve enjoyed His company. As I’ve learned to sit in His presence, He’s walked me through tears of joy and pain and healing. I’ve learned to discern the sound of His voice, and now I recognize it throughout my days, guiding me. It’s the voice that comforts me as if a hand is intertwined in mine.

I know that sitting and waiting is not comfortable. And I understand the busyness of life, and the mundane moments that feel anything but sacred.

But if you feel that dull ache in your heart, if you need to catch your breath, if you want to be reminded of who you really are, maybe you could try taking a moment to listen.

Mine happened on accident. Yours doesn't have to.

Our time is precious, which is what makes it a precious offering when we lay it at the feet of Jesus.
When we take that time to listen, we allow Him to keep His promises to us, like the ones found in Psalm 23:2-3:

[The Shepherd] makes me lie down in green pastures.
He leads me beside still waters.
He restores my soul.

(And if finding a moment to rest of cultivating a slower pace is difficult for you, I've written about some ways that have helped me keep my soul nourished in this hurried world here.)

And I get the feeling that He's waiting to speak loving kindness over you each day. From the seat of your car. From the hem of His robe. From His heart to yours.


 Just then, a woman who had suffered from bleeding for 12 years approached from behind and touched the tassel on His robe,  for she said to herself, “If I can just touch His robe, I’ll be made well!”
But Jesus turned and saw her. “Have courage, daughter,” He said. “Your faith has made you well.” And the woman was made well from that moment.
Matthew 9:20-22

I so appreciate you being here! I wrote these words for you, and I'd love to know your thoughts in the comments below.
P.S. —you can subscribe to The Slow Artisan here.

Let Your Heart Grieve the Good Stuff

Growing up is hard.

And as a twenty-three-year-old woman, I've come to realize that it's not difficult because of all the adulting. (Paying a mortgage and doing taxes isn't fun, but it's doable.)

Really, it's the identity stuff that gets me.

Four years ago, I got married, moved out of my childhood home, and started college all within the same summer. Practically overnight, I found myself with a new identity.

A new last name, a new city, and an overwhelming sense of being totally lost in the world.

Sometimes change, even when you can see it coming, can still hit hard and knock you off your feet a little bit.

It's as if all of a sudden, you are no longer who you once were.
Or at least, that's how I felt.


Up until that point, my first year of marriage was the best and loneliest year of my life.

The best because I married the most wonderful and caring man. My best friend.
The loneliest because I was a married 19-year-old with friends living far away and new faces who could never know the old me.

And I was still getting to know the new me.

I loved being married. Still do. However, I didn't really consider how leaving home and sharing my life with my husband meant the loss of the old ways. "Loss" might seem like a strong word. But for the first time in my life, I realized that things would actually never be the same. And while it wasn't a bad thing necessarily, it was something that I needed the time and space to process.

In fact, I've realized that change —even the good kind— can require a time of grieving.

It might seem over dramatic to grieve about the loss of that circle of friends who lived just down the street.
Or not seeing my siblings who lived just down the hall.
Or being a small town artist in a new city, too shy to convince anyone that I am more than my job as a receptionist.

But those were things that my heart needed to grieve. 

And if I don't take the time to hold that old identity in my hands and choose to let it go, I'll find myself stuck somewhere between the old and new ways.

I can't be both the middle child of seven, and also a wife to my husband equally.
I can't prioritize being a daughter over running my own household.
I can't build upon an old identity that was never meant to last anyway.



Transition has gotten a little easier over the years.

And it's definitely changed my perspective on how to deal with this particular grief.

I saw my husband grieve when we moved from Colorado to Kentucky to earn his master's degree; he had to to leave behind his best friends.
I see my friends move to different cities, and I listen to their struggles as they deal with their evolving friendships.
I feel the pressure to be a peacemaker for my old home, but then I am painfully reminded that I have my own family to care for first and foremost.

It's teaching me the importance of holding things loosely, letting the old and new ways flow freely into my hands as they come and go.

Maybe you can relate to these kinds of growing pains. If so, let me be the first to tell you that I totally feel you. It's okay to grieve the change. That might be exactly what your heart needs before you move forward.

I think it's just part of the process as we grow up and into a new identity —the one God intended all along.

And the process might look like a kind of mourning. Or maybe letting go. 
Or looking in the mirror and realizing that change and growth can lead to very beautiful things, even when being in the middle of it feels disappointing or just plain awkward.

So if you've found yourself in the fog between the old and new, be encouraged by this fact:

You are not alone, and you don't have to navigate the change on your own.


You will make known to me the paths of life;
in Your presence is the fullness of joy;
in Your right hand there are pleasures forever.

Psalm 16:11

No matter how old we get,
no matter how far across the state or country or world we move,
no matter who we marry or what career we choose,

we always have a Heavenly Father who knows us better than we know ourselves. He gets the big picture, and loves us through the grief and awkward moments of any and every identity crisis we encounter.

And all we have to do is ask Him to guide.
And listen for the next small step.

Over these few years of big changes and moving to new places, I've found that this sweet love of God is the one single constant I've had. With His right hand in mine, I'm reminded of who I really am. I've learned to embrace to goodness that comes with His presence during the changing times.

Found in my new family and role in marriage.
In the new cities and new friends I've come to love. 
Growing up into the one identity that will never change: my place as a daughter and friend of Jesus.

And in His hand, we are invited to find pleasures ever more, through all the fog, grief, and awkward places in between.

The Day God Asked Me to Quit My Job

I remember that fateful day rather clearly.

A cup of coffee in hand.
My bible and journal on the table before me.
The frustrations of my heart that I couldn't quite put into words.

As a freelance writer, I often started my workday with the Lord. Before I wrote my articles, I needed to write for my heart.

But nothing was coming for some reason. A lack of peace kept me distracted, though I couldn't quite figure out the cause. So I closed my journal and decided that I might as well get to work. No sense wasting time when things gotta get done.

I opened my laptop and got ready to email a client about the articles he needed for the week. And then finally, I felt the Lord speak to my heart very clearly:

"You're going to tell your clients that these are the last assignments you'll be doing for them."


And then I was flooded with peace. I can't explain why; it didn't make any sense. But it felt absolutely right, for no reason other than the fact that I knew this is what God wanted me to do.

So what do I tell him? I'm just done? Do I need an excuse?

"You're going to tell them that you've been hired to work for someone else and you no longer can work for them."

"Jeana, you're writing for Me now —I will be your employer and provider."


And so I quit.
I was filled with a peace I didn't understand.

And filled with more uncertainty than I'd ever known.



It's been about a year and half since my last employment.


And I suppose I thought that when the Lord said I'd be "writing for Him," I'd suddenly have some kind of platform or starting point. Or at least some measly income to add to what my husband makes as a student worker.

But instead, God answered every question I asked Him with this one simple word: wait.

What about a part time job?
Should I work on my own blog?
I thought you said to write —what do you even mean??

And through the tears and uncertainty, the still, small voice of the Lord spoke to me, as if I was a little girl curled up in the lap of her papa.

"Just wait."
"You can't know how much I love you when you are your own provider.
For now, I need you to stop.
It's time to rest, to find your pace.
Come and be my daughter, and taste what it is to have enough."


And so I waited.

And over the days and months upon waiting, I tasted the provision from my Father who always provides enough.

Enough money.
Enough love.
Enough hope.
Enough mercy.
Enough to overflow my heart.

So much enoughness, that I don't need to take anything more for myself.

I already have everything because of who my Father is.



I'm only now transitioning out of that season of waiting and into one of movement, with new work and writing opportunities presenting themselves. It feels like a sunrise after a very long night, and it’s exciting and scary all at the same time.

So, it's safe to say that I understand waiting is not only inconvenient —it's often terrifying.

But friend, if you are feeling that tug from God to wait, then let me take you by the hand and tell you that IT WILL BE OKAY.

We live in a world that seeks instant answers and constant security found in things that surely won't last forever.

But even in our forgetfulness, we have a Heavenly Father who waits for us and with us. And in this waiting, He calls you and I into the greatest source of security and understanding we will ever know.

That you belong to Him, and that love cannot be taken away.

"Though the mountains move and the hills shake, My love will not be removed from you and My covenant of peace will not be shaken," says your compassionate LORD. - Isaiah 54:10


May you find peace in your waiting, dear friend.

Why I'm No Longer Afraid to Set the Table

"Aren't you going to answer the door?"

My friend gave me a confused look as I let the doorbell ring. I was trying to flip burnt pancakes and make more batter and cook bacon. And darn it, I was really counting on all the guests to show up late so that they didn't have to see this hot mess.

"Seriously, go get the door." Half smiling, she took the spatula and pushed me towards the entrance.

All that to say, having breakfast for dinner sounds really great in theory. But when you buy all the ingredients last minute and you can't multitask, it just creates burnt pancakes and an anxious hostess who wants to run away and hide from the mess.

Unfortunately, the running away and hiding seems to be a recurring theme in my life.

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Although I'm an introvert, I need people.

I need relationships and connection and a meal to share with beloved friends.

Since we've been married, my husband and I have talked about making our home a place for regular gatherings around the table.

That breakfast dinner was the first of our weekly dinners that we planned to host in our home.

But after the stress of hosting just once, I mentioned to my husband that maybe we should change it to just once or twice a month. And my very logical argument could be summed up in this phrase:

"I'm just not capable of cooking for a bunch of people and holding a conversation at the same time!"

My very loving husband was silent for a moment. Then he said, "When you talk about these dinners, you are imagining as if you have to prepare this all by yourself. But I can help, I want to do this with you."

"You see that you are not alone, don't you?"

"All you have to do is ask for help and remember that I am already here with you."

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Too often, I let fear make decisions for me.

I don't realize that it's fear that is doing it because I cover it up with excuses that sound like solid arguments in my mind.

"I have never been able to do it before, so I can't do it ever."
But that actually means,
"I know this won't come easy, so I'm sure I shouldn't try."
Or more simply (and vaguely) put,
"I don't want to fail."

Fear was keeping me from setting my table.

And it's all too easy to look at the other tables in my life —my relationships or my writing or future plans— and imagine that Jesus is not there with me.

To see obstacles in front of the places I'm called to be and the dreams I long to chase, and imagine that I am on this journey alone. 

So fear comes in and tells me that I dare not try.

It tempts me to forget that the Word of God says, "Fear not, for I AM with you." (Isaiah 41:10)

But the thing is, Jesus is not afraid of the obstacles or my weakness.

Instead, the gospels remind us that He spent a lot of time on earth gathered around some sort of table, cultivating the Kingdom of God with people who didn't have their acts together.

Walking with Jesus reminds me that He is not afraid of my pace or my inability to multitask. That He works with me and walks with me through every obstacle —the big and scary, and the slow and small moments of everyday life.

And you know what? Being a slow-paced person means that it will take me a bit longer to make dinner, especially for friends. 

And that's okay.

Because the precious things in life —things made in a simple, unhurried pace— are often the most special. 

After all, that seems to be the pace of our Heavenly Father, right?

His unhurried hands healing the deepest parts of our hearts. Letting roots run deep, the sourdough bread rise, and the sun set slowly at the end of each day.

It's the artisan pace of our Artisan Father.

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We've had a couple more dinner parties since then.

And it has been absolutely wonderful.

With a little planning, prayer, and simplifying, dinners in this home have blessed us and our guests.

I hope this reminder blesses you too, to set your own table at your own artisan pace.

Wanderlust and the Kingdom of God

When I returned from my first trip to Europe back in 2013, I vowed that one day I'd live there. Someway, somehow, my husband and I would live overseas.

And I wanted it to be Europe.
More specifically, Italy.
Preferably and impossibly, Florence. (I gave up on that particular city eventually, but the dream of being an expat lived on.)

But after spending years researching every option that I could squeeze out of Google, I began to relent.

Not because it seemed too difficult, or even impossible.

My wanderlust just sort of disappeared, replaced by something new. 

Oddly enough, as my desire for the expat life began to wane, my father-in-law decided to build a house in France. Sort of out of the blue, but delightfully surprising, nonetheless. Even more delightful was the moment we found out that he wanted to fly us out for 3 weeks to drive around the French countryside in a camper.

  St. Michell, Normandy, France

St. Michell, Normandy, France

As we readied ourselves to fly across the Atlantic in May, we talked and dreamed of a tiny house on the land one day, visiting Nooch's dad in the south of France every summer, vineyards and baguettes and all the goodies.

But as we traveled around, visiting some of the most beautiful countryside I've ever seen, I could see clearly what had replaced my wanderlust:

My friends, my tribe.
Baking bread in my kitchen.
The Kentucky countryside.

It's not that I couldn't have those things if we ever decided to move to France.

But the thing is, I already have everything I could possibly want right here, in my home place. It's right here, where we've nested ourselves, just west of the foothills of Appalachia.

It was as if a deep contentment followed me around Europe, reminding me that France is lovely, and home is lovely too, and the Kingdom of God is found on many different soils.

And the best soil is simply where I am called to be.

The problem with that lesson is that it isn't exactly Instagrammable. To be fair, if you went to France, I'd want to hear all about the wine and food and see endless pictures of green hills and people wearing berets. But while I loved what I saw (and failed in the picture taking department) I came back with a deeper love for home, forgetting about the tiny house blueprints, and a desire to stay here and grow roots for as long as possible. 

But I guess I haven't been totally honest with you yet.

You see, the wanderlust didn't disappear suddenly —I remember the moment that it began to fade.

It was 2 years ago or so. I was sitting at my kitchen table with my laptop, figuring out how Nooch could get into a PhD program in Europe, opening a door for new adventures and all the dreamy things. Then it hit me —why not pray about it? How cool would it be if God wanted us in Europe? Then my dream would be unstoppable, right?

So I told God what I wanted, and then I asked Him what He thought about it. He answered me gently and sweetly, in a way I wasn't anticipating at all.

"Jeana, you want to live in a perfect city." 

He showed me a picture of a beautiful city, full of shimmering cobblestone streets and divinely crafted architecture. More lovely than Florence, than any city I'd ever known.

"But this place doesn't exist on Earth. This longing you have is for my perfect Heavenly Kingdom, the place you were made for all along. Only I can satisfy your wanderlust."

And slowly but surely, the wanderlust was replaced by rich contentment. A new longing for the Kingdom to come, built on my Heavenly Father's land. 

  Crescent Hill Reservoir, right here in Louisville.

Crescent Hill Reservoir, right here in Louisville.

And if you still want to be a wandering nomad, I totally get it. Traveling is so fun, and seeing new parts of the world is one of the most enriching things you can experience.

But let us not forget that home has a host of things to teach us too, in the beauty of small moments, where seeds are planted, growing into heavenly places for birds to make their nests and for us to nourish the people we love.

So in the words of Jesus Christ and Pliny the Elder:

"Your heart will be where your treasure is."
-Matthew 6:21, NCV-


"Home is where the heart is."

Amen & Amen.

Safe travels to you, friend, wherever your heart calls you.