I was the sixteen-year-old who gasped when my friend tattooed Winnie the Pooh to her pelvic bone. All I could picture was her eighty-year-old frame and a saggy, wrinkled bear waving a red balloon.
But now I’m a little different.
I like tattoos.
Was out the other night and saw a mesmerizing one from across the room. The lighting was dim, so at first I couldn’t make out more than a kaleidoscope of hues. But as I moved closer, the colors wrote themselves into,
RUINED FOR LESS. I rarely remember Scripture references, so if it weren’t for this phrase being in the Acknowledgements of my first book, I would've missed it.
But I did.
In Isaiah 6, the prophet describes a radical experience of coming face to face with God. “Woe to me, for I am ruined,” he said, aghast that the majesties of God chose to intersect with him. And never again, he implies, may we be ruined by anything less.
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