I was paying for some items at a retail store this week when the cashier noticed the tattoo on my left shoulder. He commented, "Your tattoo is really pretty. But I have to ask: did it hurt?" That question is asked of me from time to time, and I responded in the same way I usually respond. I truthfully said, "Mostly it stung when they worked right on top of my collarbone."
Did it hurt? When asked that question, I always pause for a second as I consider a quick and appropriate answer versus a deeply honest answer. Did it hurt? Two years prior to my ink placement, I was processing my daughter's diagnosis of cancer. I remember clutching at my chest as if my hands could have possibly supported my heart as it tore apart piece by piece. One year prior to my afternoon at the tattoo parlor, I was lying beside Katie in a hospital bed. As she held my hand, I told her simply and honestly that she would die soon. Every day, I wake up knowing that my daughter is not in her bed. She will never sleep there again. She will not sit down for dinner. She will not wear the clothes that hang in her closet. She will not go to prom or graduation or a wedding. So did the tattoo hurt? Kind of . . . but not really. While physical and emotional pain are different, they do intertwine to a great degree. At times, emotional pain can drown out physical pain; other times, it can be exacerbated by it. But, to be honest, I wanted it to hurt. I needed the physical sting as I worked through the emotional throbbing. It provided a catharsis that day. The other comment people occasionally offer is: "You know, that's forever." What I usually say is, "I know." But what I want to say is, "Duh. That's why I got it." Truth is, I don't know exactly how long a tattoo will last. I mean, I know it is permanent as we define the word. It will stay visible on my skin as long as I live on earth. Beyond that, I do not know. Is a tattoo just for this life? Will God remove it in heaven when he gives me an eternal body? Will it stay with me, truly, forever? I am not sure. I do know that it will be with me at least until I see Katie again. So when someone says, "You know, a tattoo is forever." My honest response is: "I don't know if it is forever, but it is no less than the time until I see my daughter." Painful and permanent. That is what I wanted . . . what I needed . . . when seven flowers were inked onto my shoulder. It was something I had thought and researched and prayed about for many months. It was something for me to see. To touch. To feel. Something to remind me of brokenness. And redemption. In Isaiah 49:16, God says, "See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands." I love the thought of God having my name tattooed on his palm, a very tender part of the body. I like to believe that if he were exchanging money with a cashier and she glanced at his hand, seeing the name Sarah, she might ask, "Did it hurt?" And maybe he would think about me and smile as he answered, "Kind of . . . but not really."
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I met my friend, Sarah, just over 15 years ago. She and her husband, Skip, were expecting their first child at the time. Sarah and I began attending a women’s group together while Chad and Skip both joined the same men’s Bible study. We took our kids to the Pizza Hut lunch buffet, swapped Aldi quarters, moved furniture, attended costume parties, celebrated various events and made so many memories together. I have many friends for sure, but Sarah is one of the very best.
Around 13 years ago, we also began building a friendship with a single man named Bob. Bob was in the same men’s group with Chad and Skip. When our son, Ben, was born, he brought over a meal for us and gradually started becoming part of our family. He attended our parties, slept on our couch, and took our kids on birthday outings. We solved most of the world’s problems during late night conversations at our kitchen table, and he introduced us to any of the women he dated. He became one of our closest friends - and Chad’s best. Five years ago, I sat with Sarah at the hospital as she processed Skip’s tragic death at age 42. While I was at a complete loss for words, she prayed . . . Thank you for 17 years with this man. Chad was out of town on a staff retreat when I called to say . . . Come home now. Three weeks later, Sarah informed our small circle of friends that she was 8 weeks pregnant with their fourth child. As I sat there in her living room, dumbfounded again, she said in a way that only she can . . . Better pick up your jaw. This couple . . . this woman . . . who had influenced my faith so deeply . . . why was this happening? None of this made sense. Fast forward again, as we stand together at a function in the church lobby, Sarah leans down to me and whispers . . . I went on a date. I am grasping for words. What? When? Who??? Bob. Bob who? Not our Bob? Yes. Once again struck with a loss of words, I turn to face her as she says . . . Better pick up your jaw. People are gonna look. A tapestry is a large piece of fabric woven with a complicated pattern that results in an intricate and beautiful picture on one side. A tapestry, however, is considered nonreversible because the backside is terribly unbecoming with an interplay of threads and colors that do not make any sense to the observer. Even after seeing the picture on the front, it can be impossible to understand the methodology of the back. Yet, the more we gaze at and appreciate the beauty on the front, the more we can respect the work on the back. I do not understand why Skip died. He was such a great man who loved his family so well. I hate that Sarah and her four children (who look just like their dad, by the way) have walked this broken road. I do not know why that ugly thread made its way onto the tapestry of my friend’s life. But. The beauty is on the other side. Not the other side of death. The other side of the tapestry. The side that proves God can do anything with anything. When you stand back for very long and gaze at the picture God created in this family, you see the beauty of redemption. And when I see redemption in their life, it is easier to have hope for it in my own. At Sarah and Bob's wedding, Chad gave the best man's speech while I wiped the tears. Tears that were sweet. And bitter. My best friend's husband died. So tragic. And then she married my husband's best friend. So ridiculous. And then together, we both celebrate and remember. So incredible. I see something beautiful, God. He has made everything beautiful in its time. Ecclesiastes 3:11 |
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