I Would Paint My Wife’s Dream Home
And maybe we’ll live in it someday
“I had a wonderful dream last night,” my wife told me one winter morning, rubbing her eyes.
“What was it about?” I asked.
“A beautiful country home. It was an old two-story farmhouse, painted white with blue accents and a wraparound porch.”
I nodded, listening closely.
“The lawn was a mix of grass and clay. A path led to the front door, and the house sat in a grove of dogwoods with pink blossoms.”
It was clear to me that this dream had touched my wife deeply.
“What else do you remember?” I asked.
“It felt light and natural,” she said. “Like home. I hope we can live in a place like that someday.”
For the next few days, I thought about my wife’s dream house. I wanted to find it and buy it for her. But I was a high school teacher at the time, and even if I were to find a house like that, I wouldn’t be able to afford it.
Maybe I could find a painting of a home like that to give to her in the meantime.
I searched the Internet, but I couldn’t find a painting that matched her description. Then I read about an art festival that was going to take place downtown.
I marked my calendar.
On the day of the festival, I walked the colorful aisles, looking for a painting of my wife’s dream home or an artist who might be willing to paint it for me.
I searched for hours but didn’t find anything.
I drove home, still determined, and pondered my options.
There was only one other solution. I would paint my wife’s dream home myself!
I purchased painting supplies and hid them in the trunk of my car.
Each night after my wife and kids fell asleep, I read instructional books, watched video tutorials, and painted in the garage. After several days, I finished the painting.
But it was a disaster.
The roof was lopsided, and the windows were crooked. Instead of the smooth, measured strokes I had been trying for, it looked like I had lost control of my brush.
I shook my head and took the botched canvas out to the dumpster.
That night, as I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, I suddenly remembered that Mr. Bell, the assistant principal at the school where I taught, had once mentioned that he was a painter.
After school the next day, I knocked on his office door.
Mr. Bell was a tall man with broad shoulders. Football and basketball awards lined his office walls. He towered over me as he shook my hand.
“Good to see you. What’s up?” he asked.
“Mr. Bell, my wife had a dream about a house that meant a lot to her. I tried to paint it for her but learned quickly that I couldn’t paint. I know you’re a painter, so I’m here to ask for your advice.”
“I’d love to help you, Danny.”
For the next few weeks, we painted together every day after school in the art room. Mr. Bell taught me to sketch an outline, mix colors on my palette, and gradually build up shape and texture on the canvas.
Whenever I would flub a tree, cloud, or window, he would coach me through it. With his help, I learned how to turn my wife’s dream into art.
We talked late into the afternoon as we worked. I learned about Mr. Bell’s family, his love for painting, and his dream of someday retiring to a country home, too.
Our partnership turned into a friendship.
When the painting was completed, I wrapped it gently in a towel, put it in the trunk with my painting supplies, and brought it home.
When my wife awoke the next morning, I held her hand and invited her to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Close your eyes,” I said.
I got the painting from where I had hidden it the night before and put it on a chair facing her.
“Do you remember that old farmhouse that you dreamed about?” I asked.
“I’ve never forgotten it.”
“The white and blue exterior, the lawn of grass and clay, and the dogwoods with pink blossoms?”
“I think about it all the time,” she said.
“Okay, open your eyes.”
She did, then gasped with delight. She leaped from the mattress into my arms and hugged me close.
“I can’t believe you found a painting of my dream,” she said.
“I didn’t find it. I painted it. Although it’s not exactly a masterpiece.”
“But it’s ours,” she said.
That was 15 years ago. We still have the painting of that house. Maybe we’ll live in it someday.
Perhaps we’re already there.
