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On a summer afternoon, when I was 21, I went to a walk-up tattoo shop on 17th Ave in Calgary. On a whim, I picked out a little red maple leaf, surrounded by the words “Made in Canada” and an hour later, I walked out with my then-nationalism inked on my hip.

I was so sure I would never regret it but I have to admit (yes, Mum and Dad, you knew that this day would come…) that with my views on nationalism and pacifism these days, it gives me twinges of regret, my 21-year-old self full of youthful national pride which my 34-year-old self now eschews in favour of a greater Kingdom. It’s “cute” and if there is one thing I don’t want to be, it’s that – so dismissive and condescending for anyone older than a toddler – so I’m twice as glad now that I put it somewhere underneath my clothes away from eyes and chuckles.

But now I want a purple Scottish thistle and a stalk of wheat entwined on my back for my beautiful roots deep in the land, a bright dogwood for my faith in the risen Christ, I want the names of my tinies and my beloved in my own handwriting on the palms of my hands (see? I will say, I have you carved in the palms of my hands, how could you forget/doubt/not understand how I love you always?) I want the silhouette of a sparse mountain pine tree on my ribs, I want the words love is enough on my wrists and beloved on my feet.

I have filled my house with words and it never feels like enough. I want to scrawl whole passages of books on the stairway walls, scripture on the fireplace, psalms on the cupboards, epic poems on the east wall, quotes on pumpkins, rules on the stairs, wear out a pack of Sharpies on the backs of the doors, just writing the truth that I know while I know it still for someday.

But just one more tattoo has been added to my skin. It’s likely the last tattoo.

On a summer afternoon, in my mid-thirties now, I went to a small suburban tattoo shop, next to a grocery store, in Abbotsford. I had carefully researched and selected a deeply symbolic tattoo I wanted, a small dove, and I walked back out with it inked on my slim white wrist for my higher allegiance.

This little dove is for peace, for my search for peace, for my peace-making heart, for the peace that Jesus gives, for my committment to peace and wholeness in my own life, and in the world God created, and called good.

It’s for the Holy Spirit, for my reliance on living a spirit-filled life, for my reliance on the breath of God, the infilling, it’s even for my tongue-talking mysticism.

It’s for a fearless life. It’s for the soaring truth that love wins, and perfect love casts out fear, and I will spread my small wings a bit further, lean a little further into the wind, take flight even, perhaps.

And it’s for motherhood, for how these tinies have given me a new birth, a reinvention, a whole new life, and I carry them now, tattooed on my skin.

An inch of my blue-veined skin to mark my new beginnings, I want to carry these things forward into the days ahead, I’ve been changed by it all.

This little dove faces out at the world: on purpose.

A combination of two posts from the archives as part of the Deeper Story synchroblog about how our tattoos embody part of our story. 

Today is my birthday. I am 34 years old.

The tinies asked me why I wasn’t having a surprise party. I said, “I don’t like surprises. Or parties, for that matter. But I had a surprise party once – Auntie Mandy threw me a surprise party for my sweet sixteen. And that was….um….18 years ago now.” And then I fell down dead.

How is it even possible that I’m 18 years away from that Sweet Sixteen party in my parents’ basement in south Calgary? I remember they rented a hot tub for the winter night in the backyard and someone gave me my first VHS tape: The Lion King. When my Dad thanked one of the guys for coming to my party, he made little guns with his hands, pointed them at my father, and drawled, “No way, man, thank you.” My Dad still hasn’t stopped laughing about that kid.

For my birthday, Brian got me a vintage Sears typewriter. My grandparents’ worked at Sears nearly their entire lives, and so it’s a sentimental choice. I have wanted a typewriter for years. He also gave me a gigantic Dairy Milk chocolate bar (you see why I love him). I sat down to pound at it for a while this morning. And I found myself telling Anne about how I used to write stories and book reports on typewriters, and this is how I learned to type so fast, and her eyes widened and she said, Wow, Mum, that really was the olden days.

I joked last year that 33 was “My Jesus Year” (because in most church traditions, Jesus did the whole “Death and Resurrection Thing” in his thirty-third year and so people try to make their 33rd year very meaningful). I did not actually plan on thirty-three being such a turning point year for me, but it was and now I’m looking forward to thirty four.

In honour of my birthday, I’m ready to confess a few things. For starters, I swear. A lot. I don’t swear when I’m angry. I swear for fun, because it makes me laugh, and because it feels naughty. When I start to feel truly comfortable with a new friend, I have a King’s Speech moment and then, if they laugh,  I know whether or not we’ll truly be friends. Swearing is so satisfying at times.

Let’s see….what else? I read celebrity news. (Can you imagine if Tiger Woods and Lindsey Vonn have a baby?) I have Googled myself (I do not recommend that one). I’ve contemplated shutting down my blog and writing about things like making soap because it seems easier to me somehow. I am pretty thankful the photographer used Photoshop for my author picture because I look about 20 pounds lighter in that picture than I am in real life. (Or at least I think she did…Tina? Don’t tell me. Let me live in ignorance.) I have a weakness for GIF-based Tumblrs and Meme-humour. (Clearly.) I have had a cup of tea almost every single day of this whole Lent water fast thing. I comfort myself by donating a bit of extra money to justify it. A couple of people I admire from afar emailed me this week and with all of my responses, I slobbered and flailed and generally made a fool of myself. I’m sure they regret being nice to me now. #FanGirl I have wished for a containment pod in the mini-van – either for me or for the tinies – usually after hollering how I JUST WANT TWO MINUTES OF SILENCE. Also, I told my four-year-old that he wasn’t allowed to ask me another question for at least 10 minutes. And then for ten minutes, I heard: “Mum, is it ten minutes yet? Why ten minutes? Can I ask a question now? Now? Now? Now? Why are there street signs? Why do we wear seat belts? Why is it sunny?” I despise packing school lunches and usually resort to sending a jam sandwich as the main course. I never answer the telephone because I loathe the phone with a deep and dark and deadly passion, and I ignore voicemail religiously.

Whew.

I feel so much lighter. What a nice way to head into my Jesus Year + 1.

From Psalm 65:1-2:

Silence is praise to you, Zion-dwelling God, And also obedience.

You hear the prayer in it all.

It’s time for a bit of silence.

The noise level in my head (and in my heart) is a bit high,

loud and cluttered.

 I need to make room for the white space in the margins of my life,

for the light to break through.

The older I get, the more I realize that Mary Oliver told the truth:

the only life we can save is our own.

And no one else can make it happen,

so this is me telling my own self:

you need a rest, you need a break, you need quiet.

You’re rather tired, woman.

(Maybe because something is brewing, and

maybe because nothing is brewing, but I can’t deny

how much the thought of silence scares me and exhilarates me)

The quiet winter times of retreat are an oasis

of relief and new life when we walk with Jesus.

In a few days, or maybe a few weeks, I’ll be back,

I imagine.

In the meantime,

may God bless you and keep you, may

He make his face shine upon you, and give you

peace.

Good gracious.

Joe fell a bit sick yesterday and life is still happening. I woke up in the morning and watched my email load with my eyes bugged out. Then I cried.  And so still catching up on comments, tweets, emails, Facebook shares, messages, and all from this post. Thank you for bearing with me.

Shame is crashing down, and I can hear the thud and the breaking and the release – it is glorious.

But here is the thing: Thank you.

Thank you for getting it, for loving me, for grace, for guts, for honesty, for love. Thank you for doing life with me. Thank you for standing up for Love and grace. Thank you for sharing it, for spreading the word, for trusting me to speak.  Thank you for telling a better story with your own lives: you make me braver.

I don’t quite know where to begin with it all. Yesterday’s post crashed the servers at Deeper Story, it’s travelling far and wide. I will never be able to respond to everyone well.  I’m very thankful for Luke Harms and Preston Yancey’s willingness to step in and moderate comments as well as respond well. I couldn’t and probably won’t be able to do that. (I feel in a way like I said what I needed to say and need to just let it stand.) Also, When in Comments is dedicating the next few days to that post so I’m sure a few of you will get a chuckle out of that.

I was terrified to publish that post. Not because I was ashamed anymore – I’m not – but somehow I knew that this was bigger than me, and I was just along for the ride, privileged and afraid. Now that it’s out there, I feel like dancing. Even the few Pharisees and trolls don’t bother me in the least: they know not what they do.

Here’s something I learned yesterday about doing something scary: it’s hard and holy and impossible and a helluva lot of fun. I loved it. I laughed  when I wasn’t crying, pure joy. I bathed a sick boy, made supper, spelling homework, had my folks over, did laundry, and rejoiced in it all. My word this year is “Light” and I feel like yesterday swung open the doors and windows and the wind swept right in with the noonday.

We’re in it together, and we’re singing a song of freedom and hope and love. I feel like I just stepped right into the river.

Aslan is on the move.

Let’s move with our not-safe-but-so-good God.