What hangs on your walls?

This pencil drawing hanging in my home is of a girl with an atrocious hairline, a weird ear, clownishly orange hair, and arms that stretch out like those of a T-Rex or Mr. Burns from The Simpsons. Nevertheless, it is my favorite piece of art. And that's because it's a portrait of me circa third grade made by a man named Mr. Grove, who was one of the elderly men from the church my family attended when I was growing up in Alabama.

My mom always called Mr. Grove and his wife "Mr. and Mrs. Butterworth" because they just were: they were small, and sweet, and white-haired, and looked like they could have been teleported right in from a Normal Rockwell-esque painting. They lived in a modest cottage within walking distance from the church, and were the kind of couple younger adults in the congregation like my parents would stop by and check up on every once in a while, just to make sure they were doing okay.

One Saturday, the church hosted an "Adopt a Grandparent Day," which matched the church's kids up with an older person from the congregation so that we could all get to know each other better. And although I was perfectly happy with the two sets of grandparents I already had in real life, I was delighted to adopt Mr. Grove for the afternoon.

Of the many activities planned for the kids and the "grandparents" that day, my favorite was when we were asked to draw portraits of each other. At the time, I fancied myself a fabulous artist--I recently had won second or third place at an art contest at our state fair, after all. This in mind, I soon whipped up what I thought was a perfect interpretation of Mr. Grove and his wonderfully wispy hair.

Mr. Grove, though, took his time. He studied my little face, then took a pencil--not a marker--and started drawing with slightly shaking hands. At first I was confused, and maybe even slightly insulted, to see my form come about like a scribble-y cartoon. (I mean, he had just received a portrait by an award-winning artist!) And as soon as he picked up a dark orange crayon to color in my hair, one thought filled my mousy-brown-covered head: "Um, this old man is either blind, or he is crazy."

But then Mr. Grove told me what he was thinking. "I picked this color because you have hair the color of candy," he said. "Candy-colored hair."

Suddenly I was in love.

Not only did this sweet man take his time to notice little nuances about me--imagine, what I thought was "mousy brown" translated in his mind as a color that was sugar-infused, delicious--but by explaining that the crayon he was using was "candy-colored," he also introduced me to a love for the perfectly picked adjective.

To this day, I remember Mr. Grove's line as the first time I realized that words stirred something in me. It was the beginning of something. And lucky me--I got a piece of art out of it that documents it all.

So that ugly girl up there on the wall? That's me. Suddenly learning that I have wonderful, Mr. Grove-blessed, candy-colored hair.