& the tattoo means something to me. Joy means something to me. Because of the timing of the appointment. Because of the faithfulness of God through out my whole life.
My appointment had been scheduled for about a month, now. Friday, April 11th. I left work that day early, pulling up just as I had promised I would to the tattoo shop in that plaza. I was becoming increasingly aware of the sliver of time seperating me from a needle repeatedly stabbing my arm, & the fear I had yet to feel was beginning to register with me. All began to go in slow motion, as I fumbled with my keys to hide the nerves, walking in to find that the tattoo artist wasn't even there. His wife had just had a child within the past three hours. & how do you get mad over that? You don't. Because who can really help when a baby decides it's ready to be held for the first time? & what kind of man would rather be scarring my arm with the word joy rather than witnessing it at it's finest? So needless to say, I thought I had to worry about myself showing up to the appointment & here I really had to worry about the tattoo artist. But God's timing is better & He is always bigger than the breath of the moment.
If I tried to read your mind right now, my guess would be you're wondering if I am trying to say God told me to get my tattoo. No worries, love. I'm not. God didn't tell me to, but I'll tell you what happened, & I will remind you that there is never one millisecond when our Creator is not in control & there is not one molecule-scaled decision that doesn't first slip through the Lord's hands. He is always, & through it all, He has said yes. Sure, we make our decisions. We plan dates with friends, dates with potential mates, dates with high hopes of employment. But in the end, we're leaning into something that is merely air. God is the one who permits everything to come & go.
My grandparents keep mental lists of everything I love. No joke, in their kindness they have surprised me time & time again with little gifts of things I love, things I never remember even sharing with them. My grandma even admits that she knows the foods we love by just watching what we reach for at the family feasts. That gets me. The fact that she loves me enough to not only remember the details of my loves, my fears, my quirks, but also observe me to capture my most full being. My grandpa was the same way. He loved me in a way that I will never shake, & in his sickness when he couldn't catch the air quite as smoothly as his youth, he still let my hugs linger, my whole wieight fall against his chest as he sat in the recliner with the oxygen beside him.
They both knew I had a tight knit relationship with the word joy. To me, as they knew, it was more than a word, & they found in my deep love a delight in finding anything for me they could that said joy on it. Anything & everything, my collection grew, as they even went so far as to place a special order on QVC when they saw Mary, Joseph, & Jesus tangled within the ceramic letters j, o, & y. So when I sat on the hospital bed in the livingroom next to my grandpas recliner & told them that I was going to get my tattoo the following evening, neither were surprised or repulsed. By their reaction, it was almost as if it was only natural.
Two weeks later as I was getting ready to leave for my grandpa's calling hours, I had gotten a message from the tattoo artist asking me if I was available the following night to get my tattoo, if I was still interested. So the following night I walked in my grandparent's house to show my grandma that joy was still with me. & honestly, I think my grandma loves my tattoo more than anybody. In a seemingly twisted way, she's getting it like most people never do. Joy comes in the mourning. It still does. It shows up in the middle of the silent room, when the memories overpower the present through the retelling of stories & laughter that flexes our spine. She cries a lot, but when she laughs, & it does slip through on occasion, joy bursts like bubbles gallivanting through the air. In those moments, joy blooms, conquering sorrow, taking us to the very place within the warmth of our hearts where Jesus resides.
So when the stranger at my work storms past, criticizing my choice to mark my body, hollering that I am not my own & I was bought with a price, I want to let him know that he is not going to save anybody through his judgement. I want to whisper from the depths of my lungs that Jesus didn't give us his words for us to cast judgement on others. He gave us his words so we can have life. He died so that the law could be erased. We aren't bound anymore. We walk free, following our king who died & rose again three days later, because death just couldn't beat him. I wanted to let him know he's my Jesus, too.
& the verse sits well with me, because even though this man casts condemnation, Jesus said I am free to go. He said I'm his & he bought me with his life. & when I think of Jesus in all God's glory & goodness & I really just dwell in his fullness, the verse isn't nagging, telling me what not to do. It's telling me what to do, who's to remember I am, & how to live free. Because if I had to take a stab at this, I would say that Jesus is most concerned with my making His death count in me than the joy that now rests above my elbow. I bet he's more concerned with the words of my tongue & the way my arms reach down to scoop up the weak than the ink stain on my arm. I bet he's more concerned with being glorified & strangers finding his love story entangled through me than anything. After all, that is what he died for. So his love story could consume us & everyone around us like a wildfire of grace.
& incase you were wondering, that man's rage didn't lead me to salvation. So thank God Jesus already found me.
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