The Things We Deem Beautiful

Watercolor artwork by eleven-year-old me, in 1990, fascinated by the ocean, as always.

Here I’ll try, like Vincent van Gogh, to paint from memory—with words—what I saw.

Van Gogh once painted a vineyard he’d visited in Southern France, recalling every color and leaf. *

Vacationers seek beauty. They’ll travel thousands of miles to stand on a mountaintop for a panoramic view, to lean over a pier railing and spot dolphins, fins arching, breaking the surface of a glassy sea.

We recently drove one thousand miles, my family and I, to the Gulf.

The first day at the beach, I swam across a narrow lagoon. The water, green as grass, mixed with sunlight, cascading patches on a sandy floor. Through my mask, snorkel upright, I assessed the length to a line of breaker rocks separating the lagoon from the harbor which led to the sea. Hoping to avoid hazards—sting rays, jellies, sharks? —near the rocks, I’d peer into the secret world of fishes and crabs and mollusks.

I reached the distance. The tide was changing. Whether it was coming in or going out, the lagoon suddenly appeared murky, so I slipped off my mask, dunking it as I treaded water. Little particles floated. Plankton or muck. I could see a handful of fish darting out of crevices covered in mossy grime. This wasn’t pleasant.

So, I climbed out, onto a large rock, careful not to slip on seaweed slime, and stood. The air cooled, and I saw a boat pass on the opposite side of the breakwater. Several boats headed out of the bay and into the deeper sea.

Curiosity led me to scale dry rocks toward that deep-sea direction. And there, I saw clear tide pools where swaths of seaweed swayed, colored like Vincent van Gogh’s vineyard.

Waves lapped the tidepools’ edges—I thought the Gulf was glassy, but no—the deepness of the ocean pushed against these rocks where tiny communities of underwater creatures sheltered. It was too much. I had to see more.

I descended, lowering into a tidepool, clutching the side of a rock. The gentle waves held power. Was I a fool to trust the sea’s mercy?

But then I saw the fish. Bright and crisp yellows and purples. Each time the waves paused, a view reassembled. Seasnails held to the rocks, fearless, unmoved. Strange, army-green frog-like fish roamed the terrain, guarding sections of rock, then disappearing if my grip neared them.

Some fish had black and white stripes, with a shock of periwinkle blue along their sides. I could have stared and stared. Then I realized my family splashed in the lagoon on the other side of the rocks. Perhaps they’d mistake me for having drowned.

I stood and waved. Then I swam back and told them what I saw in colors I could only partially describe. And like van Gogh, I tried to relay the wonder of things seen.

We do this naturally when we share, when we retell. We humans seek to experience beauty.

And, if we believe God’s creation is good—and we hope, as those redeemed by Christ Jesus, for a future where God renews every fiber and molecule—the things we deem beautiful will be further perfected.

Do you search to witness what’s beautiful?

Photo taken by Shannon Friesen, 2025

*Van Gogh tidbit derives from Russ Ramsey’s book Rembrandt Is in the Wind: Learning to Love Art through the Eyes of Faith (Zondervan, 2022).