A Blank Canvas - When God Hands You Back Your Voice

There are moments when words feel impossible.

Not because they aren’t there, but because they’ve been buried. Smothered beneath silence, shattered trust, or the weight of a story we were never allowed to tell. And yet, the longing to speak never fully dies. It lingers like breath withheld, waiting for a space safe enough to exhale.

This post marks the beginning of a new series, A Blank Canvas, an invitation for you to join me in returning to the sacred art of becoming: of letting God create something breathtaking from what we thought was ruined.

The Story Behind the Series

Many years ago, I sat on a wooden pew in a small chapel, clutching a red journal I didn’t want. I was attending a retreat for women survivors of abuse, not because I believed I needed it, but because I was willing to be curious.

I was numb. Blank. Familiar with silence.

But that day, something changed. I looked up at a stained-glass window of the Risen Jesus, full of color and light. I mumbled a reluctant prayer.

To my surprise…He answered.

Not with thunder or miracles, but with words, my interior cries, poured out like watercolor across the pages of that red journal. A poem. A breath. A beginning.

The First Stroke

Here is the first poem I ever wrote. It came like a wind after a drought. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t perfect. It was prayer.

A Blank Canvas

from You I was born,

but by the sinner’s hand

The canvas was torn.

Exposed, drowning, it is land I seek,

but barren, desolate, it provides not a drink.

To quench a thirst of an unthinkable kind,

I beseech evil to provide a bind.

My canvas is saturated in colors of shame,

for which I am left with only You to blame.

How could a thing happen as such,

to leave me a wound too much?

But – wait-

As from the tattered fabric weeps what is red,

it is You I find fills the prayer in my head.

Why are You here after all that I’ve done,

to push and pull at You without any concern?

To my last fighting words,

a sweet whisper He sang…

“Oh, my dearest child, let Me explain,

Bask on that weathered cross where I hang,

For it is there that you

Recognize Me in your pain.”

In that very moment, it became clear

I was a palette that He held dear.

So, a promise to You I forever give.

I return to You so that I might live.

A portrait that You might color at will

for others to ponder, The Way up that hill.

And, although I have to offer not much –

just a simple gift with a personal touch.

It is a gift, not gold

or anything high-class.

It is what you now give me

A Blank Canvas …

As I wrote, I realized: I wasn’t empty after all. I wasn’t ruined. I wasn’t voiceless.

I was a canvas in the hands of the Divine Artist, waiting to be remembered, redeemed, and re-colored by love.

An Invitation for You

This blog is not just about my healing, it’s about yours.

The same God who whispered words to me in that chapel longs to do the same for you.

You may not be a poet. You may never have written a thing in your life. But somewhere inside of you is a blank canvas, still breathing beneath the silence. It is not too late. You are not too far gone. And there is no wrong way to begin.

So, ask yourself gently:

• When did I last feel the urge to speak, but didn’t?

• What blank page in me is asking to be seen?

• Could I trust God to give me back my voice?

  
  

Place your hands over your heart. Close your eyes. Breathe in. Let silence become sanctuary, not prison.

Embodied Prayer Prompt

Posture: Sit with your palms open on your lap, as if holding an invisible journal. Let your shoulders soften.

Breath: Inhale: “I am the work of Your hands…”

Exhale: “…and You are not finished with me yet.”

Movement Forward: Pick up a pen. Write one word on a page. Just one. Let it be the start of something sacred.

Psalm Echo

“Yet, O Lord, you are our Father; we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand.” - Isaiah 64:8

Like clay, like canvas, like breath, He holds you, shapes you, colors you, listens to you.

Welcome to A Blank Canvas.

The journal is yours now.

Let the first stroke be holy.

With you,

Kimi