She stood at the edge of the harbor, the ocean air caressing her face, holding a single red rose and two ripe cherries.

The ship was waiting.

Beyond the sails and the gathering mist was a vast ocean-and somewhere beyond that ocean, a destination he might not return from.

She looked at the man she loved and placed the rose in his hand.

"Mon Cheri," she whispered. "Take this with you."

Then she gave him two red cherries, deep and glowing in the shadows, "These are a symbol of the bond we share."

He reached down and kissed her with the trembling passion that only the heart knows.

"Come back to me," she whispered.

He held the rose and cherries close.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

There are some goodbyes for which words are too small.

She did not know when-or if-she would see him again. But love does not always ask for certainty. Sometimes it asks only that we believe in what we have been given.

So she watched as he boarded the ship, carrying her rose and her two ripe cherries- symbols of their bond, connected, small offerings filled with the sweetness, passion, and promise of their love.

And as the ship disappeared beyond the horizon, she held one hope in her heart:

I am waiting for you Mon Cheri Amour.

The Story Behind the Painting:

This is the story that came to me while I was painting Mon Cheri Amour.

I imagined a woman giving her beloved a single red rose before he sailed away to a far away destination. The rose became a symbol of romantic love, passion, and devotion. And the two ripe cherries appeared almost as if they belonged there-rich red jewels resting in the darkness, another small offering from her to him.

I wanted the painting to hold that feeling of love that exists between light and shadow-the sweetness of tenderness, the depth of passion, and the uncertainty of saying goodbye.

Because romantic love is one of God's beautiful gifts to us. Because God doesn't just give love He is love. Agape love. Mon Cheri Amour love.

Love can be tender. It can be consuming. It can make us brave enough to wait, to hope, and to believe that what we hold in our hearts is worth protecting.

The title also came in an instant, Mon Cheri Amour, because French is the language of love.

As I painted, Mon Cheri Amour became more than a rose in a glass vase.

It became a moment suspended in time-a woman giving everything she could give before her beloved disappeared across the sea.

The rose.

The cherries.

The darkness.

The hope.

The love.

A gift from God.

That is what this painting is about.

Mon Cheri Amour.

A love deep enough to cross an ocean.

Mon Cheri Amour 14"x11" Oil Painting on Linen Panel

by Kristen Ulla Grunewald

EDEN

18x14 oil painting on linen panel

There was once a garden where everything was beautiful. The flowers opened without fear.
The trees gave their fruit freely. Nothing needed to be hidden. And in the middle of it all were lush greenery and three roses-full, delicate, and impossibly beautiful. But beauty has a strange way of making us curious.

One day, a woman and a man reached for what they had been told not to take. Something broke. The petals from the roses fell. For the first time, he saw himself as flawed. She felt self conscious and ashamed. The innocence they had known was gone.

Three petals fell to the earth. Not because the roses had stopped being beautiful, but because something beautiful had been broken.

An apple stayed in the darkness lingering behind the roses. A constant reminder of what we once had. We all know something about that garden. Maybe not the garden itself.But the moment. The moment when life changes.

The moment we make a choice we wish we could take back. The moment someone hurts us. The moment we realize we are not who we thought we were. We all lose something along the way.  And yet…The garden remains. There is still beauty.There is still something growing. There is still a way home. That is where Eden began for me.

I was repainting one of my earlier rose paintings when, suddenly, an idea came to me:Paint the apple. Hidden in the back, in the shadows. So I did.I placed it low in the right-hand corner, almost disappearing into the darkness behind the roses. And suddenly, I knew what I was looking at. It was Eden.

The three fallen petals became the brokenness of mankind-the innocence lost when we reached for what we shouldn't have. The seven tiny flowers on the vase became a quiet symbol of the divine and of completeness. And above it all, the three roses remained. Beautiful. Still blooming. Still alive. This is the part of the story that matters most. The fall is not the end. We are all broken. We all have fallen petals. We all carry things we wish we could undo. But broken does not mean forgotten. And it does not mean beyond redemption.

Perhaps that is why the apple sits in the darkness. And the roses remain in the light. Because grace is bigger than our fall. And maybe Eden isn't only the garden we lost. Maybe Eden is the promise that, through faith, we can find our way home.

When I began painting Eden, I wasn't thinking about any of this. The painting actually began as one of my earlier rose paintings. I wasn't satisfied with it, so I took it down and began painting over it. As I worked, the painting started telling me what it wanted to become. I believe it is the Holy Spirit who inspires me and does the work. I just need to listen.

Three roses emerged.

I placed an apple deep in the darkness behind the flowers-A symbol of the choice that changed everything.

Then three petals fell onto the table. Three small pieces of beauty separated from the roses. They became symbols of fallen humanity-of the innocence we lost and the brokenness we carry.

But Eden did not end there. Because brokenness is not the end of the story. The vase carries seven little flowers, a number chosen for its association with completeness and the divine. And above them rise three roses-still beautiful, still alive, still reaching upward. That became the heart of the painting: We may fall, but we are forgiven and this is grace. We may have become broken, but we are not beyond repair.

Not by becoming perfect. Not by hiding our fallen petals. But by being loved right where we are.

The apple is in the darkness.

The petals have fallen.

And still, the roses bloom. Perhaps that is what makes a garden beautiful in the first place. Not because nothing never breaks there because it did. But that something beautiful keeps growing. Maybe Eden isn't only the garden we lost. Maybe it is also the promise that, through grace, we can find our way home.