“OMG, yes!”, exclaimed one. “You’re too cute, of course,” replied the other, when I asked my girls if they wanted to get mother/daughter tattoos together. One has several, one has one, and wants another, and I have none and want one.
During a recent phone conversation with my youngest, I asked her if she had thought about what tattoo we should get. There was a momentary pause, and she said, “Oh, you were serious. Who are you and what did you do with my mother?” She asked me what made me change my mind about a tattoo. I laughed and told her, new year, new me. Honestly, in the moment, I couldn’t articulate exactly what had changed. So, I asked God, and He showed me.
Later in the day I sent my daughter a text and told her that for so long I’ve been lost in an identity of wife, momma, grammie, friend. God has been pulling out roots, trimming branches, and wrecking my perspective of Who He Is. He is perfecting in me who He created me to be. It sucks, and it hurts, BUT I know the end result will be beautiful.
Getting a tattoo, which has always seemed to be taboo for women in my generation, is not an act of rebellion in this situation. It is an emergence. It will be a physical reminder that in this deep season of transformation, God did it. He redeemed me, He carried my pain, my hurt, my uncertainty. He took all the shattered pieces and put them back together again. He delivered me.
This season of walking in the space in between all started when I commented on someone’s tiny, and slightly obscure cross tattoo.
The irony is not lost on me.
Shalom, my friends.
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