What is the one thing you are least likely to do? Jump out of an airplane? Go camping? Run a marathon?

There is no skydive, no tent and definitely no 26.2 in my future, but if you had asked me this time last year what I’d be less likely to do than any of those … it would be get a tattoo.

So nearly a year ago, when my youngest daughter started talking about getting a tattoo for her 18th birthday, I tried to pretend I didn’t hear her. She already has about six ear piercings, so I’ve grown accustomed to her unconventional look and am far less concerned about her outer appearance that who she is on the inside. But a tattoo is so … permanent. And she’s only 18.

As I listened to her, I realized that she didn’t want it for the purpose of rebellion; she’s a lot of things, but rebellious isn’t one of them. She wasn’t interested in the impression it would make on others. She wanted a tattoo because she wanted a visible symbol of her faith in a place where she, and others, would see it every day.

So I began to warm to the idea, accept that her preferences and tastes may be just different than mine and respect the fact that her faith is something she wishes to carry with her in a visible way for the rest of her life.

Then the other shoe dropped.

“Mom,” she said. “For my 18th birthday, I want to get a tattoo and I want you to get one with me. I want it to be a mother-daughter thing. I want us to do it together.”

What? No way. You have got to be kidding.

But …

She kept asking. She was not joking.

And I realized something. This was not another hole in her ear. This was forever. Visible to all. For her, it was a profound moment. The moment she would put a symbol of her faith on her body in a way that all would see. Irrevocably. And she invited me into that moment.

One thing I’ve learned in 21 years of parenting: When your teenager asks you to be a part of a significant moment in their life, it’s a high honor, not to be taken lightly or scoffed at. So, at 51, this suburban housewife got inked.

It brings to mind this:

Love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. These commandments that I give you today are to be upon your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads.* Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates.
Deuteronomy 6:5-9 (*emphasis mine)

In ancient days, observant Jews bound what is believed to be these verses to their bodies in leather boxes called tefilin, translated into Greek as phylactery, so the idea of having a visible reminder of the faith attached to the body is not a new one. Perhaps in the same way, the dove that will now always adorn her wrist will remind her of the Holy Spirit’s constant presence in her life.

I know that the cross on my left shoulder blade, the same side of the body as my heart, will ever remind me of the sacrifice of the Cross, the grace of the Cross and the glory of the Cross.

And a sacred moment between mother and daughter that took place late at night in a funky tattoo shop in downtown Jonesboro, Arkansas.

Never say never.

What’s one thing (you think) you’ll never do?

About 17 years ago (June 13, 1993), my Daddy left this earthly life. Each year at this time I write about him and one or more of the qualities that made him the kind of man I want to write about 17 years after his death. This year, it’s idealism.

His idealism was best understood through the words of his favorite song, The Impossible Dream from his favorite story, Man of LaMancha. He first introduced it to me via the soundtrack recording on eight-track tapes on the way to our farm just outside the Jonesboro city limits.

At the time, I was too young to fully grasp the meaning, but I listened carefully and learned the words because I knew that for Daddy to let me listen to music that contained the words hell and whore, it must be very special.

Based on a book by Dale Wasserman, the play is about Miguel de Cervantes, an imprisoned novelist who defends himself by staging a play. The central character in the play is a country squire named Alonso Quijana, who might have rightly been called an early social justice advocate. His despair about oppression and evil in the world drives him to madness and in his mind he becomes Don Quixote of La Mancha, who fights to rectify society’s wrongs and bring about justice.

After losing a battle with a windmill, which he sees as a four-armed giant, he attributes his inability to conquer to the fact that he has never been properly dubbed a knight. As Don Quixote, he sets out with his servant, Sancho, on a journey in search of glory and knighthood so that he can fulfill his quest to conquer injustice. Along the way he finds himself at a small inn, in his eyes a castle. Here he encounters a band of rough, drunken men and several prostitutes, one of whom he comes to adore and admire as the fair maiden he see when he looks at her. The woman, Aldonza, is initially cynical but is won over as he sings to her of The Impossible Dream and joins him in his quest. (Read a full synopsis of the play here.)

Regardless of the writer’s intention, the message of the story communicated to me by my Dad was the beauty that Quixote sees in ordinary things and people devalued by society, the importance of fighting for truth and justice even when it seems impossible, and the idea that we are each called to do, sacrificially, what we can to improve the lives of others.

To dream the impossible dream
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go …

And the world will be better for this
That one man, scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with his last ounce of courage
To reach the unreachable star.
— Lyrics by Joe Darion, full lyrics here

And he did.

Earlier this week, I volunteered at Manna House (more about Manna House here, here and here) as I often do. There is never a time that I leave there without some new insight, but on this day I left with a book in hand as well.

The book, Radical Compassion, Finding Christ in the Heart of the Poor, (Amazon link*) is by Gary Smith, S.J., a Jesuit priest who lived and worked among the poor of Portland, Oregon for nearly 10 years. It is a journal of his ministry to them and their ministry to him, a collection of personal stories about his relationships with people who have been neglected, abused, beaten down and have endured struggles and hardships that are painful to read.

But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame* the strong. He chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things — and the things that are not — to nullify the things that are, so that no one may boast before him.
I Corinthians 1:27-29

Note: King James Version uses the word confound — to perplex or amaze, especially by a sudden disturbance or surprise; bewilder; confuse — instead of shame. But I think both are applicable.

Some of the stories are funny, some sad, some are agonizing to read, but the story of a man named Robert is particularly poignant — the kind of poignant that makes it difficult to see the pages through the tears. Father Smith met Robert, 38, depressed, addicted to drugs and HIV positive and for the next two years or so, walked with him through his illness and death. Toward the end of his life, Robert asked to be baptized and during that holy moment, Father Smith shared the story of the good Samaritan. His reflections on that passage are profound:

You are the good Samaritan, Robert, because you have pulled all of us out of the safe trenches of our lives. And your love — so squeezed out of you by life and history — you have claimed again and given back to us a hundredfold. What a grace it is to be present to see you commit your life to the one who is the author of your love. Your faith is healing oil for our wounds.

And so the weak shame, confound — teach, nurture, edify — the strong. May we all know a good Samaritan.

*The only thing I get if you buy and read this book is a bit of satisfaction.

Early one morning last week I checked Facebook and saw this status:

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.”
— Washington Irving

I had to catch my breath.

I’m a crier. Weddings, funerals, books, movies, songs. The groom’s face at first glimpse of his bride. Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus. The book of Psalms. The Notebook. It’s embarrassing at times, but overall I count it as a blessing; I’d rather cry than not feel at all.

I’ve seen some tears this week. A few days ago at Manna House (more about Manna house here, here and here ): a mother in raw, anguished grief on the morning after her daughter’s violent death. Later that day, a daughter’s agony as she searched for her missing parents and feared the worst.

Those moments took my breath away.

The women’s tears opened the door for comfort; an outward sign of need and vulnerability that would perhaps not otherwise have been expressed. An opportunity for others to empathize and walk with them through the grief, even if only for a moment or two. And an honor for me to be invited onto the sacred ground of another’s tears.

I’m comforted by Psalm 56:8:

Record my lament; list my tears on your scroll (or in your wineskin); are they not in your record?

In ancient times, tear bottles (or wineskins) were used to catch the owners’ tears in times of grief. King David wrote this Psalm as he was being pursued by enemies who sought to kill him. Some scholars say David believed that God has a tear bottle of His own in which He collects our tears.

I love that thought. That He sees each tear as it falls and keeps them in His bottle. That every tear I shed is known to Him. And that He comes, with tear bottle in hand, into to those raw, vulnerable moments when the tears will not be contained any other way.

Amen.