1998.  A little demon whispers in my ear: "Hey girlfriend, who do you think you are anyway, somebody important? Look where you came from. Do you think anyone's going to be inspired by the struggles of a kooky artist? You're too mixed up to help your peers. Besides, it's all been said before. You're just being redundant." Blah, blah, blah ...

     I respond gingerly. 'Why certainly I'm important; I've learned that I'm a King's kid. And I believe hope and victory are always cutting edge. Maybe my experiences will encourage other artists to push through their roughest times.' The black furry thing scoots off, looking for someone else to bother; it recognizes a formidable adversary! Lies just don't do it for me anymore!

     My years on planet earth have encountered its agonies and ecstasies.  Creativity will always be my game, and beautiful, affirming images my specialty. I have found my true voice. Ah, yes, ART, the visual historian, redemptive balm for the brokenhearted, eternity's food, manna from heaven and a passionate call to love. Will you, dear reader, follow along in my journal, see through my searching eyes as they birth a series of paintings entitled, Angels To Watch Over Me? Let's journey to Wondershire together.

I beg of you fellow traveler, please take heart -- it could be that we are never alone. Shall we continue to pray?                                                               

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