tale of the tattoos---part one

The beginning of December marked two years since coming back from Rwanda. Some friends said, "Two years since you came back home! Yay!" Other friends said, "That was a good enough amount of time, glad you came back home!" And there were more of what people consider other joyful reasons to have come back to the US. I was and still am far from joyful reasons. My heart hates December 5th. My heart aches December 5th. My heart breaks December 5th. And it aches and breaks every day in between. That "good enough amount of time" I spent there was minuscule compared to what I had dreamed and envisioned. It was tiny compared to the fire that I had. It was nothing close to what I thought God had planned. 

It was just long enough to taste my dream, but then immediately be yanked away from it. Just long enough to be shown wonders, but then wasn't allowed to be a part of it. Just long enough to see everything fall apart and feel like the past four years had been a waste. Just as I had thought, "wow, God, You're making this happen, just like You said You would and could," is when it was taken away and it was as if God had said: "oh, nevermind." A holy dream and desire was held out before me, but then I was told, "you can't have it." "Here is everything you've ever wanted, you're close, so close, but just kidding, you won't be doing any of that."

It was bad enough to be wrecked by a shattered dream and left wondering why before a God whom I thought was allowing me to be a part of building His kingdom and allowing me to enter what I thought would be a deeper intimacy with Him. Left wondering if God is who He says He is. Left wondering why He would hurt me so. That was bad enough. 

Throw in important relationships in my life disintegrating. People that I trusted. People that I loved. People that changed my life. People that God used to help heal broken parts of me. Gone. A confusing sort of gone. A wondering-if-they-cared-to-begin-with sort of gone. An absolute heartbreaking sort of gone. They're gone in a way that it's like they're dead, but they're still alive. And I was left wondering, once again, why. Why would such people suddenly be against me? What happened that made them believe false things? Why would they be adversaries when all I did was obey and listen to God? How could other Christians not believe me when I said God was leading me in a certain direction? How could other Christians call me a quitter? How could other Christians tell me I don't have what it takes to be a missionary? 

So much emotional chaos and confusion. I knew God wanted me to go back home, but I fought with every ounce of my being to stay and finish what I started and finish what my supporters expected me to finish. However, my heart grew heavier and heavier and I knew that I had finished what God had wanted me to finish in the short time I was in Rwanda. So I went home, but it was definitely God dragging me home. 

And then I crashed and crashed hard. I crashed in my walk with the Lord in ways I never could have imagined. I began struggling with things that I thought could only happen in bad dreams. A new medical diagnosis added fuel to the fire and will for the rest of my life. Guilt and shame plagued my life, but I knew that God still remained unmoved. I knew He hadn't left, but I kept forgetting His infinite grace held me next to Him. So, my first tattoo came along:

"It is finished."

John 19:30. Jesus' last moments and last words. Words that will forever give hope to those trapped in darkness and those in a season of darkness. This was the moment where everything that condemned us all to everlasting torture was consumed by the hands and feet and soul of Jesus. Every sin and ounce of darkness was forgiven and paid for. Every sin past, present, and future. Every shortcoming that we ever committed or don't even know we will commit is washed away. And what's even more amazing? Jesus tells us that it is finished even though before we were even alive He knew how badly we would sin against God, and yet still chose to die or us anyway. He finished what we never could. 

This tattoo is on the inside of my bicep, easily seen every day. And I have needed to see it every day. No matter how I may have struggled the past couple years, no matter the level of darkness, I'm reminded it's already forgiven and forgotten. It's a reminder of the endless grace that I really shouldn't be given. It's a reminder and hope for that next day that God hasn't left and He never will.

Truth is is that I started this post this past December, however, I now see it rather fitting that I finished this post at Easter time.

the difference between tattooed people and non tattooed people

The next couple posts are going to be about the stories behind my two tattoos. They have a part in my story post-Rwanda. Before I post those, I would like to politely post a couple rants.

Tattoos tell stories. They could be stories about how the tattoo was intentional or not intentional. They could be stories about the most important things in a person's life or could be a mere description of something that a person really likes. They could be stories of scars, battles, heartbreak, or loss. They could be stories of celebration or promises. They could be stories of those gone or those born. They could be stories of beliefs that a person bases their life on. Stories, stories, stories. They're almost like a look into the soul.

Tattoos are also prone to judgmental questions and statements. Things like, "Did you think about what it will look like when you're old?" "It wont mean anything to you later." Yes, I thought about what it will look like when I'm old. Sure, wrinkles might effect mine, but, to be blunt, I'm going to look like one bad ass grandma. And, yes, they will mean something to me even in 50 years. My motto with getting tattoos is no ink without meaning. I chose my tattoos because they are things that will never grow old.

So, next time you see someone with tattoos, consider asking them about their stories rather than mumble under your breath how classless they look and how trashy that person must be.

"The difference between tattooed people and non tattooed people is that tattooed people don't care that non tattooed people aren't tattooed."