09/20/2025
The body painting contest took place in a strange window of time—right before the world cracked open with Covid-19 lockdowns, protests on the White House lawn, and the eruption of the Black Lives Matter movement. None of us could have known how quickly life would change. At the time, I was just wrestling with my own small world: whether or not to even say yes to competing.
I didn’t want to.
Not really.
The artists who competed on that stage were masters of illusion, giants in their craft. Their work looked like something pulled from dreams, each brushstroke bending reality. My skills, by comparison, felt like a child’s first attempt at finger painting. The only explanation I had for being chosen out of so many who applied was this: God had intervened.
The year before, I hadn’t competed. I had only been asked, at the very last moment, to assist one of the most talented artists in the industry. He’s the one who won first place the following year. That year, working alongside him, we placed ninth. But truth be told, I didn’t contribute much. I washed brushes. I fetched paint. I may have sprayed one tiny area of color on the back of the model’s calf—and that’s about it. I even laughed at myself for it, calling it my grand debut: “the calf sprayer.”
But that small role taught me something. I was grateful for the backstage glimpse, the chance to watch a true professional. And I believe that was God’s way of setting me up. That little door opened so that, a year later, I would be chosen to compete myself.
When the invitation came, my first reaction wasn’t excitement. It was fear. I felt like an imposter stepping into an arena I wasn’t built for. And almost immediately, the little challenges began to pile up, testing me.
At one point, I posted a picture of myself standing proudly beside a breathtaking piece of art created by another competitor. I thought nothing of it—I just wanted to share the beauty of the event. But the artist called me out, saying that without giving credit, it looked as if I were claiming their work as my own. I was horrified. That had never been my intention. I quickly explained myself and gave proper credit, but inside I felt crushed. Yet even in that embarrassment, I heard God’s whisper: This is about humility. Keep walking.
Everywhere I turned, I was reminded of my inadequacy. And yet, that’s exactly when my faith came alive. I remembered: if God can use a donkey to speak truth, then I can certainly be willing to be the donkey if that’s what He asks of me.
So I threw myself in. I stayed up late at night, researching, sketching, studying techniques I barely understood. My prayers became part of the process. I told God, “Even if I come in last, let it be for Your glory. Let me learn. Let me grow. Let me see the nuggets of gold You’ve hidden in this.”
What held me together was the team. Each of us had a role, and each role mattered. My dear friend Tyishia, who has known me since nursing school, stepped in with a spoken word piece and a song. Instead of our model walking to pulsing electronic music like the others, she walked to Tyishia’s heartfelt words and melody. It was raw, powerful, and different. And to me, it was worship.
When the contest ended, we learned we had placed 27th out of 28. Nearly last. On paper, it looked like failure. But strangely, my heart was full. I knew, deep down, I had been obedient to what God wanted from me. That was victory enough.
Not everyone on the team saw it that way. Some shared sharp comments, disappointment, even frustration. But I stayed rooted in the peace God had given me. This is what was supposed to happen, I thought.
And then came the twist I never expected.
The contest’s theme that year was “The Art of an Illusion.” That’s what had sparked my initial idea. And only a few months later, as the world turned upside down—lockdowns, fear, racial reckoning—people everywhere were asking the same question: What is real, and what is illusion?
Almost overnight, our piece, which had been brushed aside, reemerged. The official Body Painting page shared it again, this time with a tribute. Suddenly, what had been 27th place was recognized as meaningful. Our art, inspired by faith, had found its moment.
Looking back, I know this contest wasn’t about rankings or recognition. It was about revelation. God used it to stretch me, to teach me humility, to remind me that His presence isn’t reserved for mountaintops and glowing prophets. He meets us in unexpected places—in hog pens with prodigals, in deserts with wanderers, and yes, even in a body painting contest.
That year, I didn’t walk away with a trophy. Instead, I walked away with something eternal: the knowledge that when I step out in faith, even trembling, God is there. He always has been.
