My Tattoos, Christmas, & Jesus

It feels really bad-ass thinking about getting the first tattoo. Then, reluctantly make the appointment, a day in advance, leaving extra time to think it over. But there's been enough thinking time; people have babies without pain meds, get teeth removed without novocaine, this is no big deal. The permanency doesn't even alarm. Suddenly, it's happening. And it's nothing, it's not nearly as bad as you'd think. And then it's done. There they are, beautiful, fresh, stark, and black.

I was more scared of the needle; more scared of the pain, than my body being permanently marked. I had no hesitations about that. And some might say that's just the way I feel now, because they're new and I do feel like I conquered something. But I love them. I know what they mean to me and how much they mean to me, and I love them.

To me the decisions to get my tattoos and where to get them weren't that difficult of decisions at all, though I gave it proper, responsible thought. I think I've had a harder time picking what to order at a restaurant. I think the reality of them has only really sunk-in in this second week, conveniently the week of Christmas. I was nervous at first that maybe I would begin to regret them, but I didn't. I own them; they're beginning to feel familiar as opposed to foreign.

Tonight I went to a very simple service at my church, and I absolutely loved it. I've always loved Christmas, but each year it gains more meaning for me. This year, despite Mercy's first ever Christmas Eve service being extremely simple, I was moved. This means something to me! This isn't just a part of a lifestyle anymore - as it was to me growing up. I believe in Jesus, and a loving and gracious God, and the world's need and hunger for both.

That's the reason I could get a cross tattooed on my wrist: it is very real to me, very important to me. I try not to force feed my beliefs or views to anyone, but I think there's something powerful and beautiful - something to be said about choosing to be marked in such a way regarding faith in Christ. It's there (along with the script on my other wrist) because I know a hope and joy that I cannot deny. And I want to never forget that.

Oh! the Waste of a Sympathetic Heart

I wear your heart on my sleeve,
And it really hurt when I had to leave,
Because I don’t believe the things you believe,
And I don’t know how to achieve,
What I want in you;
To see the potential I do,
To feel the weight of your merit,
And to tell you how to wear it,
And you want me to care,
And I do,
I sit right there,
But nothing,
It does nothing,
And I tried not to, but I cried,
A little when I went outside,
Because I seem to lose the time I bide,
And I get so frustrated,
And wish you had elaborated,
Wish I could do more,
But left only to deplore,
The confusion laid upon you,
I wish it were forgone.

Where Am I?

I think it's safe to say now, that when I first came back, I think I was depressed. Not immediately. Immediately upon return from missing everyone and everything I'd missed so much, of course I was happy. I think I was also unaware. My return was a little naive, - or rather I was, when I returned. Minneapolis was home, and everything that that entailed to me was meant to make me feel complete again.

And to my surprise it didn't.

I'm not typically a person to throw around words like "depressed", but the more I think back on it, it fits. I felt like I was in the wrong body; in the wrong life. Nothing about my situation felt like it could possibly be reality. After having this surreal (in a positive way) experience for six months and feeling all that time like a little piece of me was missing, - Minneapolis, friends, family and church - I felt so misplaced where I was supposed to feel right again.

It felt like picking up in the middle of a conversation; I knew where it started, I missed some of the middle, but now it didn't make any sense. It was disorienting. They talk about return-culture-shock. It wasn't that. I couldn't have been happier to be back in my home country, even as much as I enjoyed any of the four countries I spent time in.

It was as though my life carried on without me in it. And as much as everyone "missed me", after about a day, it felt like it never happened. That felt like an assault to me, - that's not to say that was anyone's fault - but you can't imagine the weight of talking about the experience. After the initial steps off the plane, I've had a probable grand total of 5 solid, sincerely-sought opportunities to really talk about my trip.

I say it's safe now because even though it's still a day to day struggle of recollecting that those were my real life experiences, I'm starting to feel like I am where I'm supposed to be.