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.
