"Cheryl Wilson Artist Website"

There are moments in life when everything seems to hit at once—a wave of change, challenge, and uncertainty that forces you into stillness. That’s where I found myself recently: in a silent season. One where my usual rhythm of painting, creating, face time with my favorite people came to an unexpected halt. And while it was uncomfortable at first, it was in that quiet space that God began to rearrange my heart and help me gather my thoughts.

I was navigating through multiple transitions all at once. My body had begun to speak to me—loudly—through health issues that demanded rest and reflection. At the same time, my husband had just retired, and our once predictable days had shifted into new, unfamiliar patterns. Now, he was home all day. While I welcomed having more time together, it also meant learning a new way of sharing space, energy, and daily responsibilities. It was a blessing—but one that came wrapped in growing pains.

To add to the emotional weight, we were preparing for a major move to a new state. A move that stirred up both excitement and sorrow. The practical work of downsizing, planning, and letting go of a home full of memories was physically and emotionally exhausting. But even more difficult was the emotional toll of telling our children that we wouldn’t be moving closer to them. Their disappointment pierced my heart in a way only a mother can understand. I wanted to explain that this move wasn’t about distance—it was about purpose, calling, and the next chapter of our lives. But their hurt was real. And it weighed heavy on me.

With so much change swirling around me, I found myself unable to paint.  

My studio—once my sacred space of expression and connection with God—sat quiet. For weeks, that lead into months, I couldn’t bring myself to pick up a brush. Not because I didn’t want to, but because my mind and body were full. Too full. I had nothing left to pour out on the canvas. And in a way, I felt guilty for that. Like I was letting go of a part of myself.

But in that silence, God was at work.

He wasn’t frustrated with my stillness. He wasn’t asking for performance or productivity. He was inviting me to sit with Him, to let the noise settle, and to hear what I couldn’t hear before: the gentle whisper of His peace in the middle of my storm.

This silent time allowed me to gather my thoughts, to sift through my emotions, and to let go of the pressure I had placed on myself. I began to see how much I had been holding—not just physically, but spiritually. The caregiving, the planning, the managing, the people-pleasing, the worry—it was all there, sitting heavy on my shoulders. And in the quiet, I finally let it down.

Eventually, one day, I walked back into the studio.

I didn’t plan it. I didn’t force it. I simply followed a pull in my spirit to go back to where I’ve always found peace. I put my hands on my tools, and as soon as I began to paint, I felt better. Not because everything was fixed. Not because the move was complete or the family tensions were resolved. But because I was reconnecting with my voice—my God-given way of processing life.

Painting reminded me of who I am: a vessel. A woman who hears and feels deeply. A creator who can find healing in movement, in color, in texture. A daughter of God who is safe even in seasons of transition.

This time of quiet wasn’t wasted. It was sacred. The reconnection with my husband during this time of transition became important.  The purging of 35 years of collecting …. stuff, was hard but so freeing.  While my world around me had become quiet, the calls silent, God was working in my heart.

Silence isn’t the absence of purpose. It’s often the preparation for something deeper. I willingly allow God to meet me in this stillness. I am allowing Him to hold my hand while I gather my thoughts. And through this, I am finding my way back to the thing that makes my soul come alive.

And I’m painting again—not just with a new spirit, but with gratitude, depth, and a renewed sense of peace.