Two years ago today, I had my dream permanently inked onto my wrist. I’d been thinking about getting that tattoo for years. There was little pain during the process. When I stood up from the chair with a clear bandage wrapped around my newly-decorated wrist, I knew I’d always have a reminder of what I believed to be my God-given dream and passion. It was to be a reminder of what I believed His promises were to me. I was still singing at the time, and had no fear of never singing again.
A few hours after walking out of the tattoo parlor, I sat on a stool in front of a small crowd at a songwriters’ round in Nashville and sang these words:
Ready for chains to fall Please shatter all my walls Open hands in surrender It’s your grace I must remember
Yet, even as the lyrics floated from my lips, grace was the least of what I was feeling. Something happened just before the round that felt like a stinging slap in the face. Yet I bit my tongue and smiled as I sang because everything I’d learned about grace and forgiveness had turned me into a grinning doormat instead of a brave woman who stood up for herself.
* * * * *
Two years later, and I wonder if I’ll ever sing publicly again. It’s been over a year since I held a mic in my hand and connected with an audience through music. I often look at my wrist and a bitter laugh rises up from within me.
Folks often comment on how pretty the tattoo is. I smile and say, Thank you even though I wish I could forget it’s there. It’s no longer a reminder of promises or dreams. It’s an ever-present mockery of a foolish hope.
* * * * *
I still live and breathe music, though there’s a sadness attached to it now. I still hum along to the radio in the car and occasionally sing around the house. I’m still learning to play guitar and I sometimes let my fingers wander over the piano keys. But the dream and passion belonged to somebody else. They belonged to the me who believed grace and forgiveness were always possible, the me who believed in rainbow-type promises, the me who believed in Plans and Hope and a Future.
I’m still trying to figure out who the new me is. I’m still kicking at the pile of rubble and determining the best blueprint for rebuilding. This much I know: no more shattering, no more surrendering. And no more tattoos.
I do believe you will sing again, what was birthed as a dream from your heart will grow and flourish in time. Right now with children growing up, you might have a pause in that dream but don’t ever give it up. Don’t ever close the door.
He DOES give us the desires of our hearts if we pause and learn patience from the ‘quiet’ place of waiting.
Thank you, Sharon. You are always such an encourager.
I’m struggling to find the right words, when there are no words. But this I do know. For some reason, I have been following your blog for a year or two, and your music and your lyrics pierce my soul. I know God has given me a chance to be aware of you and to pray for your journey. Even when it appears we are alone, and that God has abandoned us, He still causes others to be aware of our need. And sometimes when I read your blog, I want to get on a plane and rush to your side. That is God in the flesh. Never lose heart, for He is with you, through those around you physically, spiritually and virtually.
Rebecca, thank you for such kind comments. There is a positive to all of this: I’m learning to to stick to boundaries and to stand up for myself. I appreciate the friends who are “flesh,” and I’m thankful for the chance to find out who those people are.
I continue to be moved by your honesty and ability with words. I don’t know, Rebekah, but, for me, life has been more like a journey in which I’ve discovered new, sometimes frightening parts of myself. Sometimes, I had to “kick at my own pile of rubble” (powerful imagery) to gain insight into my own fears, hurts, and possibilities. Had I insisted on putting the pieces of the rubble back together, rather than looking for a “new blueprint,” my life might have been a bit more secure in some ways, but much more fragile in others. I used to think that I wasted a bunch of time as an architect of something that didn’t last. However, I’ve come to realize that every one of my constructed realities was (1) deeply flawed, but (2) profoundly essential for my personal growth (however painful it was)–and it has never been neat and tidy. Here’s to your journey of self-discovery as you pick among the rubble! And, the tattoo is pretty cool :-).
Thanks, Garry. Your comments never fail to encourage me.