Lose Yourself

Last month, Monty and I went to a Monet exhibit at the Denver Art Museum. We bought the tickets about a month before the exhibit, and when the day came to go, I thought about cancelling. I wasn’t feeling well, and my spirits were low. But we went anyway, and by the time we left the exhibit, I felt completely different. We’d spent a few hours in the presence of overwhelming beauty—beauty that took me out of my state of self-absorption and transported me into the life of Claude Monet. Looking at his paintings—canvases that he actually touched with his brush so long ago—was the medicine my spirit needed.

This shouldn’t have surprised me. I believe with all my heart that the beautiful can mend the broken. I’ve had moments in my life because of grief, depression, and addiction where I felt completely shattered—broken beyond repair. Focusing on my brokenness sent me spiraling even further down. I remember feeling as though I would never care about anything or anyone ever again. But I did. Through a combination of medication, recovery meetings, and clinging to God, I’ve been freed from that spiral. When I start to feel the warning signs of it—the apathy, the boredom, the lack of light—I look for beauty. Many times I have to fight to see it, but when I do, I always find it. And the beauty I find in music, literature, and art forces me to take my eyes off of myself—it gathers my broken pieces and puts them back together. Sometimes I don’t even realize that the reason I’m feeling low or broken is because I’m starving for beauty.

The beauty created by others like Monet truly is medicine for my soul. Even more so is the beauty of God’s creation. When Monty’s mom—my mother-in-law and very dear friend—died on a long ago May day, I couldn’t imagine ever caring about beauty again. Janet was gone. I didn’t think the world could possibly be beautiful without her in it. But on the day of her funeral, as we stood at her graveside, I looked up. And despite the tears on my cheeks and Monty’s ice cold hand in mine, I saw God’s beauty—groups of crabapple trees were blooming in delicate shades of pink against one of the bluest skies I’d ever seen. Tiny pink petals fell around us like snow as a gentle breeze lifted my hair. I looked at those trees, looked at Monty, and knew that someday, the world would right itself. God was still with us even though Janet wasn’t. His beauty began to heal my broken heart in that moment.

My brokenness has also been mended by creating beauty of my own. When I write, paint, or hand embroider, I lose myself in the act of creating. It’s profoundly healing to focus on creating something beautiful rather than focusing on myself. And I love the idea of creating beauty that wouldn’t exist in the world if I hadn’t put it there. I have many examples in my family of people who create beauty. My oldest sister quilts and sews. My mom sews, too; she also makes cards and, in sending them, has developed a ministry built on kind, timely words. Whenever someone receives one of her cards, I know it’s a message in a bottle for them. My other sister is a hairstylist who creates beauty for her customers. And my sister-in-law bakes, creating beauty in her kitchen with her custom cakes.

I know that many of you, like me, struggle with depression and illness. And sometimes, you can’t even get out of bed. You can still find beauty in your bedroom—with the music you listen to, the art you look at online, and the books you read that stun you with the perfection of their sentences. I know that it’s a fight sometimes to find beauty. But it’s possible. If you’re looking for it, you’ll find it. Notice it. Pay attention to the way it makes you feel—whether you’re admiring someone else’s beautiful creations, gazing at God’s spectacular world, or creating something beautiful of your own. I know that when I spend my days fighting for the beautiful instead of focusing on my problems, my life transforms from ordinary prose to a poem of praise. It will for you, too. Fight for the beautiful, my friend. And let it mend your broken places.