Topic: Change & Resiliency

  • What Does The Fox Say?

    “What Does The Fox Say?” by Jason Kotecki. 24 x 30. Oil on canvas.
    Original is SOLD 🔴 Shop this art!

    Have you ever texted someone a question and then those three little dots pop up as they formulate their reply? 

    You know the three dots.

    Depending on how consequential their response is, that delay can feel like an eternity, right?

    We want answers now, but sometimes they take a while to come.

    From the very beginning of our relationship, Kim and I talked about living in a lake home one day, surrounded by tall pine trees. It took over twenty years to come true, which was approximately nineteen more than I expected.

    Over that prolongated waiting period, I asked God what was taking so long many times. I never got a concrete answer. (At least not one that kept me from asking it again, three months later.)

    When we grow impatient waiting for an answer, we are prone to make up our own.

    I figured maybe God didn’t hear me. Maybe He was hard of hearing. Maybe He was waiting for me to pray harder. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe He didn’t think I deserved it.

    The thing is, I never got the sense that God was saying no. Sometimes I wished he would, because the waiting was so difficult, as He wasn’t exactly responding with an obvious yes. Just twenty years of three dots.

    After the dream home materialized, in the middle of a global pandemic, when we thought we might lose everything, so did the answer. It became clear that He was doing important work in me that mattered more to Him than the dream home, and that kind of work takes time.

    Eighteen months after moving in, a storm rolled into Sheboygan, and a terrible straight-line wind ripped through our backyard. It destroyed 150 trees, uprooting our forest oasis and plunging us into debilitating debt.

    Again, I came to God with a question: Why?

    This time, my faith was stronger than the roots of the pine trees that couldn’t stand up to the storm. I knew something good would come from the nightmare, but the three dots lingered for longer than I would have liked. I leaned on a question that got us through the pandemic, and one I share almost every time I’m on stage: 

    “Now that this has happened, what does this make possible?”

    A week after the storm, I took my family to breakfast. After we ordered, I turned to a blank page in a journal and asked my wife and kids to dream with me. What was possible now that the storm had taken all our trees? One by one, we built our list as we envisioned a bright future.

    It took a few months for the professional lumberjacks to clear the trees, level our property, and for the new grass to take root. But now we have a stunning, unobstructed view of Lake Michigan and a vast stretch of green to play baseball and bocce, and frisbee. We’ve hosted several Moonrise Movie Nights with friends and family. We installed a fire pit, a bird bath, and other whimsical touches that make our hearts sing. We recently planted fruit trees that we hope will yield ingredients for homemade pies, and we hope to add some legacy trees that will look gorgeous in the fall.

    When people who knew our old backyard see our new one, they often lower their voices to a whisper and say, “I hate to say it, but I think it’s even better now!”

    And you know what? They are right. We do miss the trees, but we like this version of our backyard even better. And never in a million years would we have had the gall to cut down 150 perfectly good trees to get it.

    Meanwhile, even though insurance didn’t pay for any of the backyard cleanup or restoration, it did give us a new roof, which was due to be replaced. And the debt, which is steadily being paid down, has drawn me even closer to God, which is right where He wants me.

    So what about you?

    Are you in a spot where you are waiting for answers, and all you’ve received so far are the three dots? 

    I can’t tell you when the answers will come, but they will. Maybe not till the next life, but maybe sooner than you think.

    As you wait for answers, don’t be so quick to make up your own.

  • To Sheboygan with Love

    “To Sheboygan with Love” by Jason Kotecki. 16 x 16. Oil on canvas.
    Original is SOLD 🔴 Shop this art!

    On our very first date, Kim and I agreed to live on a lake.

    As we began the process of getting to know each other, we got talking about our ideal place to live. For some reason, Idaho was mentioned. (When you grow up in a small town in Illinois surrounded by cornfields, almost everywhere feels more exotic.) We talked of mountains and potatoes (obviously), but pine trees and lakes took precedence. 

    We both agreed that living on a lake surrounded by tall pine trees would be an ideal place to settle down. (We didn’t necessarily know it would be together.)

    The two of us dated for five years before getting married, and that vision of lake living stayed with us. We never lived on any of the four lakes that make up the heart and soul of Madison, Wisconsin, in the twenty years we called it home. We did spend hours and hours walking along those lakes, dreaming and scheming together, trying our best to figure out how to make it happen. 

    We were also open to other lakes in other locations. We just knew it needed to be bigger than a pond, something large enough to accommodate a pontoon boat. We tried on lots of places, including Idaho, where we finally visited for the first time while celebrating our twentieth wedding anniversary. After all those years, we couldn’t shake the dream of living on a lake.

    We never anticipated it would be a Great one.

    Sheboygan didn’t hit our radar until one day during the height of the pandemic. A friend of ours knew our dream. He took note of the fact that we often took vacations near the ocean because we loved the sound of the waves, and suggested we check out Lake Michigan (which looks a lot like an ocean when you’re standing on the shore, unable to see the other side).

    The idea had never occurred to us. We pulled up a map and surveyed the cities east coast of Wisconsin. What about Sheboygan? I had spoken there once, and remember enjoying a few moments I had to spend sitting by the lake. We googled it, and learned it was known as the Bratwurst Capitol of the World and the Malibu of the Midwest because of its unique geographical qualities that provide ideal surfing conditions.

    That kicked off a magical and miraculous journey, a long story made short by saying we now live in Sheboygan. On a lake.

    This painting celebrates Sheboygan, the funny-sounding city on the shores of Lake Michigan, known for brats and surfing. But it also represents our prayers.

    Saying a prayer is like launching a message in a bottle into the ocean. Once a prayer leaves your heart, you lose all control. You hope it reaches God, but once it floats out of sight, it’s easy for doubt to creep in: Did it get lost? Swallowed by a shark? Did it reach its destination only to be rejected or forgotten? You might be tempted to wonder how you could have been so foolish to trust in such an uncontrollable, unpredictable, mysterious method. Did you think this would actually work?

    Our prayer to live on a lake was a message in a bottle. It floated out there for two decades.

    The dream felt more and more foolish as the years wore on and our business took longer to grow than we’d expected. There were times I thought the dream was lost at sea. There were moments I wished it really was, because I was so weary from wondering what happened to it. I figured it would be easier, and less painful, to have never dreamed the dream or prayed the prayer at all.

    Maybe you have a prayer like that, a message in a bottle that you’re certain is lost. I can’t tell you how your prayer will be answered, but I know for sure it’s not lost. It’s definitely not forgotten. 

    Somehow, our prayers find our way back, with answers washing up on unexpected shores at unexpected times. But it’s always at exactly the right time and delivers exactly what we need, even if it looks different than we imagined.

    God will not let you miss your future. 

    It takes faith to release a prayer into the great unknown, and that faith is always rewarded.

  • How Many Watermelons?

    “How Many Watermelons?” by Jason Kotecki. 20 x 20. Oil on canvas.
    Original is available. 🔴 Shop this art!

    What do motivational posters, charismatic preachers, and embroidered pillows have in common?

    They regularly tell us to count our blessings.

    If we’re in the midst of a good day, we’d probably admit it would take a long time to count all our blessings. Maybe even longer than it would take to count all the seeds in a watermelon. But theoretically, both could be done.

    This painting was inspired by the saying “Anyone can count the number of seeds in a watermelon, but only God can count the number of watermelons in a seed.”

    Today is the second anniversary of the day I needed a chainsaw-wielding neighbor to help me clear trees from my driveway so I could drive to the airport for a speaking engagement. The night before, a storm descended upon our home with a terrible straight-line wind that damaged our home and devastated our property. I had to leave my wife behind in a home with no power to push aside the grief to begin the clean-up and call insurance companies.

    I can assure you, it did not feel like a blessing.

    That storm turned our trees into kindling and destroyed our finances. It wrought great debt and fear, and uncertainty. It brought trauma to our family and nightmares to my kids.

    But it was also a seed.

    A seed that has since produced many blessings…

    • It connected us to some amazing people.
    • It taught us how to receive generosity from others with humility.
    • It provided us with the insurance money to buy a new roof which needed to be replaced.
    • It opened the door to a new space to play ball and badminton and frisbee together.
    • It inspired us to be even more hospitable, ushering in Moonrise Movie Nights and the Wonder & Whimsy Society Family Reunion.
    • It gave us a new view, one that many agree is even more breathtaking than the one we had before.
    • It strengthened our family and bolstered our faith, bringing us even closer to God.

    I suspect that dark forces were pretty happy about the storm, hoping it would destroy us. But I believe God allowed it because even though it brought a great deal of pain, he also knew just how many blessings would spring forth.

    I share this not to minimize the pain any of us has experienced, but to offer a reminder that in life, pain and joy can co-exist.

    Today is also Father’s Day. My experiences have led me to believe that God is a good father. He wants to hold you in his arms and give you a big, all-encompassing hug, especially if you are struggling with some great trauma of your own. I want to let you know that he is bringing forth fruit from the ashes, perhaps some of which you may already be able to perceive.

    I can assure you, the full bounty goes beyond what you can ever imagine.

    I’ve just shared many blessings we’ve identified from the storm we experienced. But the thing is, we’re only two years removed from it. How many more blessings have yet to be revealed?

    • Only God knows how many games of catch I’ll have with my son.
    • Only God knows all the conversations that will be had around our new fire pit.
    • Only God knows how many pies will be baked from the fruit trees we just planted.
    • Only God knows how many photos Kim will take of the wonder that will bloom there.
    • Only God knows how many family dinners will be shared from our deck overlooking the lake.
    • Only God knows how many people will be blessed and healed in some way by their time there.
    • Only God knows what opportunities and relationships will arise from this new space.

    The storm was a seed that produced a multitude of watermelons.

    And those watermelons are filled with seeds that will usher forth even more.

    Only God knows all the things that will be made possible because of a brief moment in time when a hurricane-force wind whooshed through our lives one summer day.

    Only God knows the number of watermelons in a seed.

  • Rudolph

    “Rudolph” by Jason Kotecki. 20 x 20. Oil on canvas.
    Original is SOLD 🔴 Shop this art!

    I had a bully in middle school.

    His name was John B. (I’m withholding his last name because I am sure he matured into a nice man with great kids and has started a charity to feed homeless cats.)

    But he was a jerk back then.

    He looked like a swollen eggplant with hair. A year older than me, John B. never punched me or beat me up. He never separated me from my lunch money. No, John was an orator, preferring to use his words to belittle and humiliate me.

    It all began when we had to draw our shoes in art class, and the teacher hung our work in the hallway. Now my brothers and I weren’t lacking anything we needed, but our family didn’t have the money for name-brand shoes. Nikes were a pipe dream, so I had to settle for Nucleus high tops instead. (In case you’re wondering, that company no longer exists, so bullies now have to focus their attention elsewhere.) Ironically, I thought they were pretty rad, discount store origins aside.

    John B. didn’t.

    Every day between classes, he’d point me out and belittle me for my off-brand shoes. I wanted to punch him in his smug, fat face. Considering he was much larger than I, that wouldn’t have ended well. So I was left to endure the stomach-churning mockery and shame until a new art project made its way to the wall.

    It could have been worse. It’s small potatoes in the grand scheme of things. But whoever said “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me” is a dolt with oatmeal for brains. Of course words hurt! And sometimes they have longer-lasting effects, with the emotional scars remaining long after any broken bones have healed.

    One day in my more recent past, I  was watching the deer in my backyard, and I thought about Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, another victim of bullying. I wondered what he might look like in real life, if his nose really did light up and wasn’t just some silly illuminated cartoon clown nose. My brain is a weird place, but it’s the question that inspired this painting. 

    It also led to a very powerful experience.

    As the piece progressed, it took on a life of its own. The deer’s piercing eyes grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. They were vulnerable, revealing someone who was sad, hurt, and alone. Someone who maybe wondered why he was made broken. And someone totally unaware that the source of ridicule, the very thing he wished he could be rid of, was actually a gift.

    I thought back to my run-in with John B. I remembered the anxiety I felt each day, hoping not to cross paths with him in the hall, resentful that my parents weren’t well-to-do enough to afford Nikes. 

    Looking back now, find it notable that John B.’s criticism was about the brand of shoes, and not the effectiveness of the drawing. The drawing was really good. His taunting certainly didn’t cause me to feel pride in my talent, but perhaps he was jealous. After all, a poorly drawn nondescript shoe hardly would have garnered as much attention. 

    I get that now. 

    But not then. Back then, I wanted to blend into the shadows and disappear. 

    Sometimes the darkness is inviting because it promises to keep you hidden from the scorn, the sticks, the stones, and the fists. But embracing the darkness isn’t the answer. 

    It turns out that the one thing you can’t escape in the shadows is yourself.

    And can I be honest with you?

    John B. was a jerk. But he’s not the biggest, meanest, most terrible bully I’ve ever faced. Not by a long shot. 

    That title goes to me.

    I’ve said worse things about myself than John B. ever did. I’ve been told that I am the worst husband, son, father, and friend…by myself. I’ve been reliably informed that I’m not smart enough, brave enough, or talented enough by someone who should probably know: me. 

    Why are we so willing to treat ourselves more horribly than we’d ever treat another person? Our inner bully criticizes our every move, never giving the benefit of the doubt. It showers us with the most vile, hurtful, poisonous self-talk. It accompanies our days with a drumbeat of doom, a never-ending echo that we have nothing to offer and we’ll never be enough.  It counters every morsel of virtue with a mountain of evidence proving that we suck.

    Then someone like John B. comes along and merely confirms what you already believed about yourself all along.

    As I was working on this painting, I could almost feel my heart breaking for little Rudolph, as if I wanted to assure him that he is awesome. I wanted to beg him to pay those bullies no mind. I wanted to remind him that the thing that makes him stand out – the very thing others mock him for – is his gift to share with the world.

    Eventually, I realized Rudolph in this painting was me. 

    And he is you.

    Like Rudolph, there is a light within you. It might be hidden in your pain, your brokenness, or the thing that makes you weird. It pulses when you share it for the good of another and brightens someone’s day. 

    Like Rudolph, you are different. That’s exactly what makes you a wonderfully made, extraordinary work of art.

    You see, darkness doesn’t hide the truth. It uses just enough of it to get you to believe the lies.

    Yes, it IS true that you aren’t enough. 

    The lie is that you need to be.

    Like Rudolph, we just need you to share your light with the rest of us. 

  • Nope

    “Nope” by Jason Kotecki. 12 x 12. Oil on canvas.
    Original is SOLD 🔴 Shop this art!

    Mama said there’d be days like this.

    Sometimes when we’re feeling overwhelmed, exhausted, or sad, we simply need a time out. 

    Or pizza. 

    That was the prescription our midwife gave us after Lucy was born. Kim and I had come into the delivery day mentally depleted, our first child already a few weeks overdue. Then the labor itself was a marathon. After the birth, Kim almost fainted because of a drop in blood pressure. As she recovered, it was on me to put on Lucy’s first diaper and figure out out to dress a four-hour-old (it’s like trying to gift-wrap Jell-O) before clearing an inch of ice from our car so we could drive home from the birth center. 

    The prospect of going home to attend to the 24/7 needs of a newborn was overwhelming, to say the least.  Aware of our exhaustion and sensing our uncertainty, our midwife said, “You know what I want you to do? When you get home, I want you to order in the biggest, cheesiest, gooiest deep-dish pizza ever, and savor it.”

    And we did. It was glorious.

    It was just the little treat we needed to keep going. We still rely on the magical properties of pizza from time to time. 

    Sometimes we require something stronger, like a “sick of it” day. In most workplaces, if you have the flu, a persistent cough, or you’re going through more Kleenex than me watching the opening scenes of “Up,” you get to take a sick day and stay home from work. But what if you have a case of the Mondays (or a case of November)? 

    Kim and I recommend taking a “sick of it” day. (You can still tell your boss it’s a “sick day.”) It’s kind of like playing hooky, but it’s really a chance to shift momentum and throw life a curveball for a change. You can do anything you want, but no work and no chores. Treat yo self. 

    But what happens when those days mama warned us about turn into weeks, or months, or years?

    Our body will tell us if we’re paying attention. I like to think of our negative emotions as a check engine light for our body and soul. You know, the light that illuminates our vehicle’s dashboard to tell us that something’s off. Most people handle it like my father-in-law handled the check engine light on his old Chevrolet Celebrity – with a thick black piece of electrical tape, hiding the light from view. 

    Problem solved!

    Or not. Ignoring a problem rarely works. If you’re in a funk right now or enduring a hard season, it might be time to call a time-out and see what the inner check engine light is trying to tell you.

    I preach the power of optimism. But it’s unrealistic to expect we can go through life on a positive high all the time (and I’m leery about people who seem to do so). 

    Maybe you’re experiencing caregiver fatigue. Maybe it feels like everything you touch turns to shitake. Or maybe you’re burned out from the last three years of pandemic, politics, and pivoting. 

    It’s ok. Welcome to the Human Club. You’re normal!

    We don’t have to be afraid of feeling the feels and examining what they have to teach us.

    Uncomfortability can be useful. We need to pay attention to our inner check engine light, not ignore it with a never-ending Netflix marathon, a bottle of wine, or any of the countless ways we self-medicate to numb ourselves to escape our pain.

    It’s giving us a heads-up that something may need to be addressed. For me, it’s usually a warning that I need to ease up on adding new commitments to my calendar, a reminder to spend more time in my secret hideout, or an invitation to get a little more rest. (Often it’s a combo of all three.)

    This approach from Steve Jobs is a good guide. He said, “For the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: ‘If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?’ And whenever the answer has been no for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.”

    Are you in need of a change? It might be time to talk to someone, like a counselor, pastor, or medical professional. Maybe you need to take that difficult first step toward healing a relationship. Or maybe it’s time to finally embark on that new career path.

    Remember, for now doesn’t mean forever. It may feel like there’s no end in sight to the malaise you’re experiencing, but it only seems that way.

    Don’t be afraid to peel back the tape on your check engine light and see what it has to tell you.

    Maybe a gooey, cheesy pizza and a night on the couch is exactly what you need. Maybe a “sick of it” day will do the trick. Or maybe it’s time for a baby step toward a bigger change.

    Let your inner check engine light lead the way.

  • The Monarch

    “The Monarch” by Jason Kotecki. 40 x 60. Oil on canvas.
    Original is SOLD 🔴 Shop this art!

    His name was Joel, but I called him Mr. Dawson. He was one of the best leaders I’ve ever known.

    On the surface, Mr. Dawson was just a regular guy who coached youth baseball. But he was kind, humble, and strong, albeit not in the “benchpress dump trucks” sort of way. A rare autoimmune disease took several fingers on one hand. But he was able to balance a baseball with it while holding a bat with his other hand. During practice, he’d carefully toss the ball upwards and whack it with the bat in the direction of a fielder.

    When I played Little League, he managed an opposing team, but his vote helped me land on the all-star team. He became my coach after drafting me when I turned thirteen and moved up to Junior League. I was an occasional pitcher. My fastball wasn’t very fast, and I didn’t have a curveball, but I kept the ball over the plate. The good news is I rarely walked anyone, but the bad news is batters usually salivate at the prospect of facing someone who throws slow and straight. 

    The back of my baseball card was not impressive.

    Perhaps not surprisingly, I’d never been the winning pitcher of a game. I could claim it was because the teams I pitched for were never that good, but then again, neither was I. For some unknown reason, Mr. Dawson decided to make it his mission that season to get me a win. It took a while, but somehow, his persistent belief in me sank in. I actually started believing it was possible. I don’t even remember the score of the game when it finally happened, but I do remember the feeling. I remember his proud smile. 
    And I remember being happier for him than I was for myself.

    That’s what the best leaders do: believe in people. 

    Oftentimes, those people don’t believe in themselves. Sometimes it’s for a good reason, and sometimes it’s the natural result of not having anyone in your life who does. But the good leaders see a spark. Heck, maybe the spark doesn’t even exist, but their belief that it does is so convincing, it’s as if they are somehow able to will it into existence. 

    This painting was inspired by C.S. Lewis’s character, Aslan, the Christ-like figure in The Chronicles of Narnia. It’s a great image of the best kind of leader: brave but vulnerable. He’s confident in knowing what he’s about, but kind enough to welcome the lowliest creatures into his friendship and protection. Malcolm Forbes said, “You can easily judge the character of a man by how he treats those who can do nothing for him.” 

    People are fragile beings, like the butterflies in this painting. I sure was when I was thirteen, a shy, skinny kid with oversized glasses playing on a team stocked with much better athletes, trying to figure out who he was and what he had to offer. 

    The best leaders walk with us out of our past and into our future, accompanying us from who we’ve been to who we can be. We all need people like that in our lives. If someone believes in you, consider yourself lucky. And take them at their word, even if you can’t yet see what they see.

    Mr. Dawson died too soon from cancer shortly after I moved on to high school, more complications of his condition. By then a close friend of the family, I saw him face his final battle and the unknown of the next life with bravery and good humor. 

    Sometimes in life, we are the butterflies. We are fragile and need to believe the people who care about us are right when they tell us they see greatness within us.

    Sometimes in life, we are the lion.

    We are called to be leaders who seek out the lost, the young, the weak, and the forgotten. Our job is to look for the good in them, believing in them as long as it takes until they can see it for themselves. 

    Thanks, Mr. Dawson.

  • One Way To Look At It

    “One Way To Look At It” by Jason Kotecki. 6 x 6. Oil on canvas.
    Original is SOLD 🔴 Shop this art!

    One day Kim wrote a social media post about how ugly our backyard is after having been ravaged by a cataclysmic storm. The harsh, violent, apocalyptic hellscape is heartbreaking.

    And very, very ugly. 

    A well-intentioned commenter felt the need to correct her, “No, it’s beautiful.”

    Of course, the commenter is right. It is beautiful, in many real and metaphorical ways. And the photos Kim has taken of the carnage have captured some of that beauty.

    But you know what? It’s also ugly. Especially in comparison to what it was before.

    It can be both. It is both. And that’s ok.

    As I pointed out in my book, A Chance of Awesome, some people look at dandelions and see weeds. 

    Others – mostly kids – see wishes.

    The thing is, both are true. 

    Or take cars. Automobiles are modern marvels that give us great freedom and save us enormous amounts of time. The industry employs nearly two million people. But about 40,000 people die in motor vehicle traffic crashes each year in the U.S.

    So are cars good or bad?

    Unfortunately, our rotten news media has conditioned us to operate without any nuance whatsoever because there is profit to be made in conflict. We no longer seem to have the capacity for critical thinking; we’ve been reduced to the infantile reflex that things are either “good” or “bad.” Every issue is presented as either black or white, red state or blue state, right or wrong, good or evil.

    Ugly or beautiful.

    When it comes to any story – especially the headline-grabbing issues of the day – we’ve been duped into believing we only have two options: be right or be wrong.  

    But life is more complicated than that. Life is both / and.

    When your kid heads off to college for the first time, it’s natural to feel a sense of pride as they move into a new season of growth and independence. It’s also natural to feel sad that your day-to-day interactions with them are coming to an end. 

    Or when a loved one you have taken care of for years has passed away, you probably feel sad that they are gone. It can also feel nice to believe that they are in a better place. 

    But you can also feel relieved that your burden has been lifted. 

    That doesn’t make you a monster; it makes you human. 

    We live in a complicated world with unlimited shades of grey. (Yes, even more than fifty.) It’s not helpful to force everything into an absolute. We don’t have to walk around wearing rose-colored glasses, deluding ourselves into thinking everything is unicorns and rainbows.

    Nor is it especially healthy to point out every potential storm cloud. 

    Both approaches are childish. 

    A mature perspective is acknowledging that life is filled with contradictions. There is good and evil, joy and pain, hope and fear intermingling in all of it. 

    We do have a choice about where we want our attention to dwell, which is one of our most overlooked and underused superpowers. But it’s important to remember that focusing on one doesn’t disappear the other. 

    Life is painful. It is also joyful. Sometimes on the very same day. 

    And that’s ok.

    Acknowledging the ugliness is what keeps us from taking beauty for granted.

  • If There Was a Problem

    “If There Was A Problem” by Jason Kotecki. 16 x 20. Oil on canvas.
    Original is SOLD 🔴 Shop this art!

    What if your biggest problem isn’t a problem at all?

    I love watching otters do meal prep.

    They float on their back as they work to open an oyster for lunch. They put off a nonchalant vibe, like they’re nursing a margarita on an inflatable raft in a pool at an all-inclusive resort. They have the cool confidence of Vanilla Ice, who famously rapped, “If there was a problem yo, I’ll solve it.”

    The situation is actually a matter of life and death because if they don’t eat, they don’t last long. But of course, they are well-suited for the task, so their body language gives away the fact that there’s not much drama involved.

    I wonder how our lives would look if we went about our challenges the same way, looking at our problems more like…brain teasers. What if we saw them as fun puzzles to solve, like oysters that just take a bit of patience and persistence to crack open? Too often, we (and when I say we, I mean me, but perhaps you can relate), run around in a frenzied state, lamenting the sorry state of our affairs and worried that we’ve already eaten our last meal. 

    I, for one, have perfected the craft of rejoicing over all the times God has blessed me and provided for me, while feeling absolutely certain that He’s forgotten about me this time. Sure, there was that time I never thought I’d be brave enough to make it through freshman year. That time we had less than $100 in the checking account. That time, the mechanic left a rag in the engine that prevented us from decelerating on the highway. And the time we came home from vacation to find bullet holes and glass in our living room. 

    Sure, those all worked out ok. But this time…?

    Sometimes I look back at old journal entries and come across my account of a five-alarm dumpster fire written as if it were the sign of the pending apocalypse. With a few years of hindsight, I often have to work to even remember the event.

    Like just today, I stumbled across an old photo of a car that had been in an accident. The hood was crumpled like a Shar-Pei, and it reminded me a lot of a silver Grand Am we used to have. Upon further inspection, it was our Grand Am, and memories flooded back of a fender-bender that happened after a family outing at the zoo. That, too, seemed like a disaster at the time. It was apparently so disruptive to my life that I’d forgotten all about it until I saw the photo in my photostream.

    We encountered a problem, we solved it, and life went on.

    Most problems in life are like that.

    I’m not suggesting we ignore our problems or pretend they don’t exist, but merely to reframe them as cosmic crossword puzzles to decipher, a Rubik’s cube to solve.

    It’s realizing that problems are a part of life, and the only people without them are taking up residence in those extended stay resorts called cemeteries.
    It’s about acknowledging that most problems are not as catastrophic as they feel.
    It’s about maintaining an attitude that problems are solvable while refusing to underestimate our ability to solve them.

    And it’s about accepting that even if you don’t solve the problem right away, even if you’re still trying to crack that baby open, that’s ok, too.

    What if we adopted the frame that these problems are not sent to destroy us, but to keep our minds sharp? Novelist and poet Wendell Berry reminds us that, “The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.”

    Perhaps the next time we encounter a problem – especially the kind that leaves us hysterical – we can try a little harder to adopt the posture of an otter with an oyster. Yes, it’s important. But it’s figureoutable and nothing to panic over. Maybe the calm would give us the clarity we need. Maybe an air of nonchalance would invite the playful spirit we need to crack the case.

    We are more creative than we give ourselves credit for. We are stronger than we feel. And we are loved by a God who is stronger still.

    Like the otter, we are well-suited to overcome any problem we encounter.

    Yo, we got this.

  • Here Comes The Sun

    “Here Comes The Sun” by Jason Kotecki. 12 x 12. Oil on canvas.
    Original is SOLD 🔴 Shop this art!

    Life is filled with mystery, much of it too big for us to understand.

     In our lifetimes, we suffer excruciating heartache and unspeakable tragedy. Just when I think I have things figured out, some new event reminds me of just how little I know. 

    But from the swing on the edge of my backyard overlooking Lake Michigan, I can observe the ever-changing nature of the sky, while maintaining a sense of certainty that the sun will emerge from the horizon at a specific time tomorrow morning. The majestic beauty resounds with the message of the Creator, who reminds us that the sun is coming. 

    When you’re at the end of your rope and feeling hopeless, you give it one more day. 

    Darkness shall not overcome the light.

    This piece is part of a series of nine paintings inspired by the Beatles’ song “Here Comes The Sun.” Watch a short film I created about the powerful story behind the series:

  • Little Darling

    “Little Darling” by Jason Kotecki. 12 x 12. Oil on canvas.
    Original is SOLD 🔴 Shop this art!

    This piece is part of a series of nine paintings inspired by the Beatles’ song “Here Comes The Sun.” Watch a short film I created about the powerful story behind the series: