Akiane Kramarik painted a beautiful picture of Jesus called “Prince of Peace” when she was just 8 years old. This amazing artwork was forgotten for 16 years after it was stolen, sold by mistake, and kept away in darkness. Now, it has been brought back to the light for everyone to see.
Now 28 years old, Akiane Kramarik is a best-selling author, entrepreneur, and philanthropist. She is known for her beautiful spiritual paintings, which feature her amazing brushstrokes. When she painted “Prince of Peace,” she felt a strong urge, inspired by a recurring vision, to create an image of Jesus as a “profound role model for humanity.”
At just nine years old, Akiane appeared on the Oprah Show and showcased her art, which was much bigger than her small frame. Among her paintings was the famous portrait of Jesus, “Prince of Peace,” created with her special techniques.
“You’re obviously gifted. Where does this come from?” Oprah asked her.
“It comes from God,” Akiane confidently answered.
In another interview, when Akiane was just 10, she was asked how she knew it was God speaking to her. She replied, “Because I can hear His voice. His voice is quiet and beautiful.”
Interestingly, Akiane’s family is not religious, and they never talked about God in their small-town Idaho home.
“It wasn’t just art that was happening. Along with the art, there was a spiritual awakening,” said Akiane’s mother, Forelli Kramarik, who grew up in an atheistic family in Lithuania. “It all began when Akiane started sharing her dreams and visions. My husband, who was a former Catholic, did not share the same beliefs. We didn’t pray together, didn’t talk about God, and never went to church. Then suddenly, Akiane started talking about God.”
Akiane was homeschooled and didn’t have babysitters or a television, so she wasn’t influenced by anyone outside the home, her mother explained. “We were always with the kids, so we knew these words from Akiane about God didn’t come from outside influences. But suddenly, there were deep conversations about God’s love and His place in our lives, and she described everything in great detail.”
Akiane said her portrait of Jesus was inspired by a vision she had since she was a preschooler. She explained that she would illustrate her visions through poetry and writing, but it became too “complex to describe through words, so I painted.”
She added, “I always think about Jesus and talk about Him. I was searching for a model of Jesus for a long time. When I couldn’t find anyone, I suggested to my family that we pray all day for God to send the right one.”
The family prayed, and then a very tall carpenter—like Jesus, who was also a carpenter—showed up at their door looking for work. Akiane remembered almost fainting when she saw him. “I told my mother that was him. I want him to be my model,” she said.
Inspired by the image in her dreams and using the carpenter as her model, Akiane painted “Prince of Peace,” a painting that is now priceless and recognized all over the world.
“Prince of Peace” showcased Akiane’s vivid and detailed techniques, which were impressive for such a young artist. The painting was sent to an exhibition but was stolen during the journey. A few years later, it was finally returned to Akiane, but when it came back, it was covered in sawdust, which she carefully cleaned off.
The family tried to share Akiane’s spiritually inspired portrait with the world again, but a clerical mistake put the painting up for sale instead of for exhibition. “Prince of Peace” was sold to a private collector, and after a long court battle to get it back, which ended with the painting stored under a dark stairwell, Akiane decided to focus on creating new masterpieces, which received praise worldwide.
Not willing to lose hope, Akiane, whose talents helped lift her family from poverty, believed she would see her “Prince of Peace” again. In the meantime, she traveled to over 30 countries, helping different groups of people with her art and sharing her message of peace and spirituality. She also kept the memory of “Prince of Peace” alive by selling more than 100,000 prints.
In 2019, something incredible happened.
The “Prince of Peace” painting was put up for sale and purchased for $850,000 by an anonymous family. It’s said this family is “one of the world’s most distinguished and esteemed families.”
The new owners see themselves as the protectors of the original painting. They believe it is their mission to safeguard it for future generations, allowing its story to inspire and touch millions of people.
After almost 20 years, Akiane unwrapped her precious “Prince of Peace.” With tears in her eyes, she dropped to her knees. In a recent CBS interview, she said, “It was amazing to me. To be able to see this in the light again, after so many years.”
She added, “It’s still surreal to me. I’m not gonna lie… Love is so powerful. It will always show up on time for people who need it most.”
“Akiane: The Early Years,” showcasing the famous “Prince of Peace” painting, is now on display at the Belóved Gallery in Marble Falls, TX.
My Husband Went on Vacation..
I thought my husband would be there for me when my mom passed away, but instead, he chose a vacation to Hawaii over my grief. Devastated, I faced the funeral alone. But when he returned, he walked into a situation he never expected—a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget. I was at work when the doctor’s number flashed on my phone, and somehow, I knew what was coming. My heart sank even before I answered. Mom was gone. Just like that. One minute she was fighting a minor lung infection, and the next… nothing. My world stopped making sense.
I don’t remember much after that. One moment I was sitting in my cubicle, and the next I was home, fumbling with my keys, eyes blurred with tears. John’s car was in the driveway, another one of his “work-from-home” days, which usually meant ESPN muted in the background while he pretended to answer emails.“John?” My voice echoed through the house. “I need you.” He stepped into the kitchen, holding a coffee mug, looking mildly annoyed. “What’s wrong? You look terrible.” I tried to speak, but the words got tangled in my throat. I reached out to him, desperate for comfort. He sighed and gave me a quick, awkward pat on the back, like he was consoling a distant acquaintance. “My mom… she died, John. Mom’s gone.” His grip tightened for a moment. “Oh, wow. That’s… I’m sorry.” Then, just as quickly, he pulled away. “Do you want me to order takeout?
Maybe Thai?” I nodded, numb. The next day, reality hit hard. There was so much to handle—planning the funeral, notifying family, and dealing with a lifetime of memories. As I sat at the kitchen table, buried in lists, I remembered our planned vacation. “John, we’ll need to cancel Hawaii,” I said, looking up from my phone. “The funeral will probably be next week, and—” “Cancel?”
He lowered his newspaper, frowning. “Edith, those tickets were non-refundable. We’d lose a lot of money. Besides, I’ve already booked my golf games.” I stared at him, stunned. “John, my mother just died.” He folded the newspaper with the kind of precision that told me he was more irritated than concerned. “I get that you’re upset, but funerals are for family. I’m just your husband—your cousins won’t even notice I’m not there. You can handle things here, and you know I’m not great with emotional stuff.” It felt like I’d been punched in the gut. “Just my husband?” “You know what I mean,” he muttered, avoiding my gaze and adjusting his tie. “Besides, someone should use those tickets. You can text me if you need anything.” I felt like I was seeing him clearly for the first time in 15 years of marriage. The week that followed was a blur. John occasionally offered a stiff pat on the shoulder or suggested I watch a comedy to lift my mood. But when the day of the funeral came, he was on a plane to Hawaii, posting Instagram stories of sunsets and cocktails. “#LivingMyBestLife,” one caption read. Meanwhile, I buried my mother alone on a rainy Thursday. That night, sitting in an empty house, surrounded by untouched sympathy casseroles, something snapped inside me. I had spent years making excuses for John’s emotional absence. “He’s just not a feelings person,” I would say. “He shows his love in other ways.” But I was done pretending.I called my friend Sarah, a realtor. “Can you list the house for me? Oh, and include John’s Porsche in the deal.” “His Porsche? Eddie, he’ll lose it!” “That’s the point.” The next morning, “potential buyers” started showing up. I sat in the kitchen, sipping coffee, watching as they circled John’s beloved car. When his Uber finally pulled into the driveway, I couldn’t help but smile. It was showtime. John stormed in, face flushed. “Edith, what the hell? People are asking about my car!” “Oh, that. I’m selling the house. The Porsche is a great bonus, don’t you think?”He sputtered, pulling out his phone. “This is insane! I’ll call Sarah right now!” “Go ahead,” I said sweetly. “Maybe you can tell her about your fabulous vacation. How was the beach?” Realization slowly dawned across his face. “This… is this some kind of payback? Did I do something wrong?” I stood, letting my anger finally surface. “You abandoned me when I needed you most. I’m just doing what you do: looking out for myself. After all, I’m just your wife, right?” John spent the next hour frantically trying to shoo away buyers, while begging me to reconsider. By the time Sarah texted that her friends had run out of patience, I let him off the hook—sort of. “Fine. I won’t sell the house or the car.” I paused. “This time.” He sagged with relief. “Thank you, Edith. I—” I held up my hand. “But things are going to change. I needed my husband, and you weren’t there. You’re going to start acting like a partner, or next time, the For Sale sign will be real.” He looked ashamed, finally understanding the gravity of his actions. “What can I do to make this right?” “You can start by showing up. Be a partner, not a roommate. I lost my mother, John. That kind of grief isn’t something you can fix with a vacation or a fancy dinner.” He nodded. “I don’t know how to be the man you need, but I love you, and I want to try.” It’s not perfect now. John still struggles with emotions, but he’s going to therapy, and last week, for the first time, he asked me how I was feeling about Mom. He listened while I talked about how much I missed her calls and how I sometimes still reach for the phone, only to remember she’s not there. He even opened up a little about his own feelings. It’s progress. Baby steps. I often wonder what Mom would say about all this. I can almost hear her chuckling, shaking her head. “That’s my girl,” she’d say. “Never let them see you sweat. Just show them the ‘For Sale’ sign instead.” Because if there’s one thing she taught me, it’s that strength comes in many forms. Sometimes it’s pushing through the pain, and sometimes it’s knowing when to push back.
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