Day 219

Isaiah 27–28 | Matthew 26:69–27:10 | Psalm 92

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Exactly one year ago today, I stood backstage at a conference I’d spent months producing. It was the final session of the final day. The venue was packed. The lights were pulsing. And onstage, performance artist Erik Wahl was painting to the sound of U2’s Beautiful Day—canvases flying, paint splattering, hands moving faster than we could track.

But what Erik was painting didn’t make sense.

Just colors. Curved lines. Seemingly random strokes of red and blue and black.

From where we sat, it looked like chaos.

Until the final beat of the song—when he stepped back, grabbed the corner of the canvas, and flipped it right-side up.

A portrait of Einstein.

Gorgeous. Instant. Perfect.

The crowd jumped to their feet.

Throughout the performance, Erik’s wife, Tasha, and I stood just behind the curtain. She knew I had helped build the event—and that our company was about to be acquired. I told her I wasn’t sure what would come next but that I had a feeling I wouldn’t make it through the transition.

She paused, smiled, and said something I’ve never forgotten.

“I know it looks blurry right now,” she said as she pointed to the portrait of Einstein her husband had just finished, “but just wait until God turns the canvas.”

Exactly one year later—this very week—unemployment has come.

And the painting still looks upside down.

The Cornerstone in the Chaos

Isaiah 28 gave me language for it today:

“Behold, I am the one who has laid as a foundation in Zion, a stone, a tested stone, a precious cornerstone, of a sure foundation:

‘Whoever believes will not be in haste.’” (v16)

It’s the reminder that underneath the mess, something steady is already in place. The foundation is sure. The lines are already drawn. The brush is still moving.

But we won’t recognize the masterpiece while it’s mid-stroke and upside down.

Because when you’re living inside a painting that hasn’t been flipped yet, it just looks like chaos.

What We Do When We Can’t See

Peter knew that chaos, too.

In Matthew 26, Jesus is arrested. Everything unravels. And Peter—just hours after insisting he’d never fall away—denies Him three times.

Then the rooster crows.

And Peter weeps.

What strikes me is this: Peter had no idea what was still to come.

He couldn’t see the resurrection. Or the empty tomb. Or the fire where Jesus would call him back. He couldn’t see the Spirit descending at Pentecost or the church being born through his preaching.

All he saw was a smear of shame on a canvas he thought was ruined.

But God wasn’t done painting yet.

The Layered Kind of Suffering

Psalm 92 says:

“How great are your works, O Lord! Your thoughts are very deep.” (v5)

And sometimes, God’s deepest thoughts are the hardest to interpret.

Because real suffering isn’t tidy. It stacks.

The severed fingers and the job loss.

The fear and the silence.

The prayers that still seem unanswered.

Sometimes you solve one problem only to create another.

Sometimes the thing you thought was progress ends up leaving a scar.

Sometimes the portrait feels more like a mess.

But what if it’s not?

What if this moment—the one where you’re staring at color and chaos and can’t make out the face—it’s still part of the plan?

What if God’s greatest works only make sense once He flips the canvas?

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Lord, I don’t understand the strokes You’re making right now. I don’t like the colors You’re using. I don’t see the symmetry and can’t make sense of the meaning. But I believe You are the Artist. And I believe one day You’ll turn my canvas right-side up. So until then, teach me to trust Your hand—even when I can’t see Your vision. Keep me still. Keep me surrendered. Keep painting—for my good and for Your glory—until the day You flip the canvas and show me what You already see.

Amen.