I shake my head in disbelief yet wonder why I'm even surprised. You see, this man doesn't do anything in a conventional or typical manner. Not that he's trying to be difficult, he just doesn't work like that. His love language is completing projects together. He loves to build and create and learn.
The story gets better. He bought paint and paint brushes too. We get back to his place and I leave for a funeral. But an hour and a half later, I return and he's got a canvas stretched, being primed on his new easel, cheesecloth spread, paints ready to fly. I'm astounded. I decide to read through my latest Real Simple magazine in the big chair facing the window, my back to him. Every 10 minutes or so, I'd peek at his progress and would gasp. It was incredible. He stood there in front of this canvas, green and yellow paints flowing in what was an abstact and lush piece of art. It really is.