Ok, here's
the story. A while ago I got a tattoo. It's a Chi-Rho, a Christian
symbol that looks
like a letter "p"
with a letter "x" in the bottom. I felt really weird, as I should
have, about not telling my father about it. Mom didn't really care.
I have eleven earrings, she didn't care about those.
When dad saw them
he said "well, at least it's not a tattoo."
Uh-oh. So I spent many long days
debating
(well not really
but it was wearing on my conscience) about how to tell him. Finally
we went to lunch and dad suggested that we go give blood together.
:o) I told him I couldn't for another year. When he asked why,
I told him about the tattoo. He took it well. He did put his
head in his hands and act like he'd just had a full house pulled on his
two pair. But he didn't have a heart attack or anything.
My sister also wants one, and I have paved the way for her. She'll
not have the stress of wondering how to tell our conservative father (who
is a lieutenant colonel in the army) that she has a cat permanently drawn
on her foot.
The moral of the
story: Dad didn't die. He loves us even if we have ink under
our skin. Kinda like God.
Nothing we do can
ever change the fact that he loves us. I'm not saying it's okay for
us to go out and sin and nothing will happen. Dad would have kicked
my tail if I'd gotten the while I was in his house or used his money
to pay for it. There are rules to follow. But if we do
mess up, God is there to forgive us. I like my tattoo, I have peace
about it because my father now knows, and I now have a permanent symbol
of my faith on my shoulder.
picture
coming soon
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