Some (More) Thoughts on Grace

I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo recently.  I’ve sort of always been thinking about getting a tattoo.  It’s one of those things I’ve long desired to do, but never quite had the chutzpah to cross off the bucket list.  I sat in a tattoo parlor in Nashville once, watching as two inked up artists permanently branded two dear friends, wishing I had bit the bullet and joined in.

The thing that always holds me back (besides the knowledge that my mom will refuse to look at me for an unspecified period of time) is that I’ve never known what to get a tattoo of.  What symbol or words mean enough to forever reside on my body?  For a long time nothing carried enough significance for that kind of permanence.

A theme has been emerging in my life that I think may just be the only one worthy of tattoo status.  It’s simple and complex, age old and yet still fresh.  It’s probably the only thing I could write a whole book on and still have more to say.

It is grace.

Grace is perhaps the most beautiful word ever written.  When I think on it, my love of grace is not a new phenomenon.  Thirteen years ago when U2’s All That you Can’t Leave Behind was my favorite album I listened to the song “Grace” relentlessly, copying the lyrics into my journal, meditating on the words.  Stories of grace and redemption are always my favorite, the ones that linger with me the longest. 

Lately though I seem to be seeing grace everywhere.  I find that with grace I can encounter it daily and still see it as though I’ve never borne witness before.  I am still surprised by grace, perpetually astounded by the depths of compassion among humanity.  Acts of grace, from the grandest to the simplest, never fail to take my breath away.

A few weeks ago, in Nashville once again, I found myself in another tattoo parlor.  And before I could stop myself I was looking at the word grace in so many different “handwritten looking” fonts that the word started to look foreign.  

And then I was lying on my stomach with my forearms out, palms up waiting for the artist to begin his work.  Ninety seconds later grace remained.

My husband likes this picture because the fresh
blood peeking through reminds him grace "is
sometimes messy"

These five letters, this one simple word, residing on my body forever means something to me.  Originally I had planned to place the tattoo on my foot so that I am always standing in grace, but the more I thought about it the more I wanted the tattoo on my wrist.  I want to carry grace in my arms wherever I go.  I want to extend it to others and hold it closely for myself.  I want the regular, visual reminder to be a person of grace.   It’s a reminder to be gentle with myself.  To have grace in each moment.  For myself as much as for others. 

A few tattooed weeks later I’ve come to treasure the writing on my wrist.  g-r-a-c-e.  The scabbiness has peeled off and its permanence has set in.  After lots of time studying it I’ve realized it’s a little off-centered, veering ever so slightly to the right.  At first it bugged me, but now I kind of like it that way.  It reminds me that grace is for the imperfections.

According to that song I listened to relentlessly, grace is a “thought that/changed the world.”  “Grace makes beauty/out of ugly things…  finds beauty/ in everything…finds goodness/in everything.“  I can’t think of anything more lovely to mark me forever. 

I hope someday to have studied grace so thoroughly, practiced it so completely that it no longer surprises me.  I hope someday I have lived in grace so fully that I expect it, not taking it for granted, but recognizing it as a sure sign that God is present in it all.  His grace is complete and found it the unlikeliest of places.  His grace has changed the world, making beauty out of it all.  My wrist reminds me to keep looking for it, keep paying attention to it, keep living in it.  It’s there.   And it’s lovely.