12:38 a.m. - Sunday, Sept. 12, 2004
The Wounds of Love
I�d been thinking about a tattoo for some time. Not very seriously, mind you, but I had the thought that someday I would probably get one, and that it would be a cross. Then, this past August, Chris came home from a trip to Canada with a small, simple cross tattooed on his left ankle. I was shocked. He had beat me to it. I had always figured I�d be the first to get one.
This set me off thinking much more seriously about it. I started casually praying about it, and I kind of wanted God to show me something special in a dream or something. Silly, perhaps, but I wanted it to be unique and uniquely meaningful to me. So it happened one day that I visited the Eucharistic adoration chapel at St. Joseph�s Catholic Church, and there it was. There was the host, held within a cross, glory shining out from it. Death and resurrection and sacrifice and hope, all contained in one, bright image. I sat there and stared at Jesus present in this sacrament, and knew what my cross must emulate.
I started doodling a lot, each cross based upon a circular center representing the Eucharistic host. Crosses filled my journal as my upcoming trip to Canada fast approached. In the back of my mind, I figured I might get my tattoo there.
Well, the time came, and to make a long story short, I sat in a small tattoo parlour in Red Deer, Alberta, with my cousin, while the tattoo girl drew up a stencil of the cross I�d designed. First stencil, not so good. Not what I wanted. Second stencil, a bit better. Third stencil, better. I sat down and she placed the stencil on my arm, leaving a blue outline where the marks would be for the rest of my life. However, she kept having to move it around, and it never quite looked quite the way I wanted. She finally placed it in a reasonable spot, but my spirit was feeling unsettled. I felt like I was about to marry Lisa Barker, the girl I dated but never quite loved. Finally, I stood and said, �Sorry. Can�t do it.� I walked.
Flash forward a week to Modesto, California. I�m hanging out with my new friends Eric and Frank. Frank has really cool tattoos, and he mentions that he�s going to San Francisco next week to have some work done. He says the guy is really good, and tells me I should come. Cool. I�ll try to save what money I have left from my trip for a tattoo.
As the week goes by, however, my funds rapidly decrease, culminating in a tire needing to be replaced on Saturday. By Sunday, I�m flat broke. That�s when Eric approaches me and says that he�d really like to bless me, and that he�d like to pay for my tattoo. Humbled and thankful, a van load of us drive to San Fran, and before I know it, I�m sitting in another chair at another tattoo parlour.
This time, however, it�s different. This tattoo parlour is immaculate. Cleaner than clean. There is art on the walls, and Henry (the guy who�s going to work on me) is an artist and a Christian. I show him my drawing and describe the host, and he knows exactly what I�m talking about. I rest easy in his artistry. And there I sit, my good friend Frank seated across from me, giving me encouraging eyes, and my good friend Eric standing over my shoulder, with the dough to pay for my ink.
It was exactly the kind of experience I wanted it to be: communal. Good friends in a good place, enjoying one another. I was not marrying Lisa Barker. Frank took his turn, although his took much longer and were much more painful (wrist and elbow. ouch.), so I sat and let him hang on to me as he winced in pain. And I guess that�s community, isn�t it? Holding on to one another through our pain. I felt honoured.
It�s been a week now since I got it, and now when I look at it I will not only remember the cross and the presence of Christ, but I will remember good friends.
These are the wounds of love.
