morning has broken prints

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There are places you choose, and there are places that choose you.

This country church in southern Mason County sits on land my great-great-great grandfather, Gotlieb Brandenburger, donated. Another great-great-great grandfather, Rev. Conrad Pluenneke, became its first full-time pastor. His son in law, my great-great grandfather helped build the existing sanctuary. Long before I stood in its pulpit, my family’s fingerprints were already pressed into its beams and limestone.

Years later, it became my first full-time appointment in ministry.

My wife and I were married here. Our children were baptized here. My mother is buried in the cemetery just down the hill among generations whose faith shaped my own before I had language for it.

We often called it the “Church in the Wildwood,” borrowing from the old hymn that seemed to fit its setting — tucked among mesquite and oak, standing steady against wind and weather, simple and unadorned. It has never been grand. But it has always been faithful.

Every Easter morning, we gathered on this hill before sunrise. In the blue hush of early light, hundreds of people from across the county stood facing the steeple, waiting. There is something about waiting for the sun in silence that makes resurrection feel less like metaphor and more like memory. When the first light broke over the church roof and spilled across the field, it felt as if we were watching the same promise our ancestors once watched — light returning to ground already made holy by prayer.

I painted this scene from that vantage point. Not from the doorway. Not from the pew. But from the hill where we waited.

The church does not dominate the canvas. It rises quietly into morning. The road curves gently toward it, as if faith itself were less a straight line and more a long obedience through generations. The large oak at the right edge of the painting leans as though it has witnessed everything — weddings, baptisms, funerals, drought, abundance — and remains.

Some land is inherited.
Some land is given.
Some land becomes sacred because generations kneel upon it.

This is that kind of ground.

And when the morning has broken over the wildwood and light lifts behind the steeple, it does not feel symbolic. It feels true.

Once all 100 prints are sold in each edition, the edition will be retired, making each print a collectible keepsake.