The Story of my Tattoo

Getting a tattoo of my dad’s initials was an idea that had been running around my head for YEARS. (Apparently I never voiced this thought out loud.  Andres was absolutely shocked as I never mentioned getting a tattoo in the seven years we've known each other.  Oops).  I finally decided to bite the bullet and do it for my 32^nd birthday!  You only get one life to live, right?

I asked my two good friends, Sarah and Jen, what they thought and Sarah said I had to be prepared to explain my tattoo.  I had to be prepared to say “those are my dad’s initials and he died when I was 11.” (I know I don't have to say the death part, but let's be honest--getting a tattoo of your dad's initials just because is a little on the strange side).  I don’t mind saying these words AT ALL.  I know it might make people feel uncomfortable or awkward and I hate that.  Let me say this:  I have been telling people that my father passed away for the past 20 years.  It does not bother me, saying it does not make me sad, you don’t have to be sorry, I’m ok.  I’ve known that he wouldn’t walk me down the aisle at my wedding, meet my husband, or see his grandchildren since I was 11.  I’m used to it, and I’m fine.  Yes, I still cry sometimes, but because I miss him the person, not because I’m feeling sorry for what I missed out on.

Because there is only time to say “they’re my dad’s initials and he died when I was young” when people ask about my tattoo, I want to write out everything I wish I could say.  This is a personal story and I’m not trying to start any kind of theological discussion, so if you are offended or want to make a snide remark, do so in your own head and move on with your day.  You can even unfriend me on facebook, if that's the kind of person you are.  Just don't be mean or nasty.  Thanks.

Here is why I got a tattoo with my dad’s initials:

I found out my father had passed away during the night at 6:43 am on March 29, 1993.  My mother came into my room to wake me up to tell me the news.  My grandparents and our pastor were in the room with her.  

On a side note, can I just say how amazing I think it is that our pastor was at our house, in my bedroom, at the second I woke up, at 6:43 am on a Monday morning?  I know people think “oh, that’s the pastor’s job” but you know, not really.  There are lots of pastors in the world, but I honestly don’t know many who would be RIGHT THERE RIGHT THEN.  Pastor Charlie is pretty awesome.

I remember everything about that day, as if I was out of my body watching everything happen to me through a haze.  It hadn’t had that experience before or since.  One of the many things I remember about the day is sitting on the floor of my mom’s room asking “Does daddy miss us?”  My mom could have said the easy, feel-good thing in that moment, “Of course he does.  He’s watching over you.  He’s your guardian angel.”  I’m so glad she didn’t. Instead she said, “Of course not.  Heaven is so wonderful and he is so happy there, he does not want to come back."

 When I asked the question I knew in my head and in my heart that what my mom said was the “right” answer.  Hearing it confirmed gave me so much comfort and continues to do so. The truth is that my dad does not miss me.  He’s in heaven.  He’s with God.   Why on earth would he miss ME? 

 I’ve never died, so I can’t say with certainty how things work on the other end…maybe he looks down on me and is aware of what has happened in my life, maybe not.  It honestly makes no difference me.   At every milestone I’ve experienced without him (high school and college graduation, my first job, getting married, having Max, quitting to become a stay-at-home mom), I’ve never really wondered “Does daddy know?  Does he see me?”  Instead, I get an image of my dad worshiping around the throne of God and I get really excited for him.  If he’s in a place where every true desire of his heart is fulfilled, why on earth would I wish he could be with me on my wedding day watching my sister and I get into an argument over something silly, or watch my hormone-crazed post-partum self cry hysterically for no legitimate reason?

To be honest, I do wonder what it would be like to watch him be a grandfather to Max, but I can’t really wrap my head around it.  Since he died when I was 11, I still feel I relate to him as a little girl.  For example, when my husband asked what my dad was like I answered, “My dad just loved me so much.  He took me out for ice cream, played catch in the backyard with me, and helped me with my homework.” Not exactly a 32- year-olds assessment of their father.  But, I don’t wonder about him grandfathering Max in a way that makes me long for him to be here on earth.  Rather, I miss my father in a way that makes me long for Heaven.

And that’s why I got my tattoo.  Every time I look at it, I remember the moment my mom said, “Of course he doesn’t miss us.  Heaven is so wonderful and he is so happy there, he does not want to come back.”  It fills my heart with gratitude to God for this truth and the hope we have because of his great love for us.

So, that's what I think of when I look at my tattoo.  

The End.