One cold Sunday morning last February, I found myself flat on my back, body tensed on a metal, paper-covered table in a St. Louis tattoo studio. I clung to my brother’s giant hand, breathing deep and calm. The words that Laura, the tattoo artist, had just proclaimed rang in my ears: “The more tense you are, the harder I have to press the needle.” So as she etched the one slow word into the tender skin of my forearm, I flashed to the posture I had found myself in 12 years earlier when I gave birth to my first child. Intentional relaxation through pain. Calm body, relaxed muscles, despite burning pain. Visualizing beauty as I lay there, verging on tears.
In the months (and if I’m honest, years) leading up to that February morning, I found myself questioning: “Should I ink this word onto my arm, needle-hot? Is this really ‘me’? Aren’t I already marked?”
We are all invisibly inked; this word is already written on our skin, hearts, foreheads. We are marked people. Wherever we wander, no matter how far away, the truth of our identity is written all over us. We were born Beloved.
But it is the one thing I keep forgetting. I forget, and forget, and act like I am anything other than beloved. What I knew that cold, sunshiny morning, finally, was that I want never to forget. I knew the answer to my inner questions was YES! I wanted to be marked with my true name, inked visibly, unforgettably, like He was, our beloved names stamped into His flesh.
So there I was on the table, word freshly inked on my forearm. I slowly sat up and took my first look. It looked familiar, the invisible made visible. My brother smiled at me, squeezed my hand.
It took me several weeks to get back to normal. The ritual of scarring the word into my skin shook something loose in me, unexpected and relieving. I found myself talking with my children and anyone else who would listen, about their belovedness.
One year later, and I confess to you: I STILL FORGET. I still forget and live by the names that the world gives me. But in the dark moments, even wearing long sleeves, I can look down and see the tendril of ink threading out toward my wrist, whispering my true name.