I got a tattoo in September.

did you know that? you probably do if you follow me on instagram (which, by the way, makes my life look like a flawless stream of sunsets and and tea and poetry and journaling. it’s not. instagram lies. we all know that, right? you probably do, but right now I’m tired of hiding behind pretty filters and just want you to know that my life is not nearly as put-together as instagram makes it seem sometimes. I do love instagram, but sometimes it lies, but I love it anyway, but that’s another post.)

but so, a tattoo.

one Sunday night at 8:45 pm, three of my friends threw me into a car, drove me to a tattoo parlor, and walked me in to get inked. which makes the whole thing sound so much sketchier and reckless than it was, I’d been thinking about getting the tattoo for around three years and they just got tired of hearing me talk about it (in the two and a half weeks that they had known me. so maybe I was a little obsessed) and they said…it’s time.

and so, a tattoo.

it’s simple. one word. my handwriting, with a little help from the tattoo artist to even out the loops on the e’s and the height of the d. just a few inches. left forearm, closer to the elbow, on the inside.



people ask me about it sometimes, the girls that took me or friends from home seeing it for the first time or people noticing it peeking out from a sleeve. sometimes I get asked, do you love it?

yes. yes, I love it.

except when I don’t.

see, that one word on my arm declares, staunchly and boldly and permanently, that I am beloved. that my identity rests in being called beloved – not earning it and not performing for it and not following the rules and not being good – but simply that One has called me beloved.

what a beautiful truth.

and so I love it, except when I don’t believe it, that beautiful and impossible truth.

I hate it when I don’t believe that I am beloved. I hate it when I’ve been struggling and feeling like I am falling oh so short. I hate it when I’m trying to earn love and getting nowhere. I hate it when I’m unhappy, when everything seems grey, when I start to feel that at the core of me I am nothing but a mess. I hate it when I haven’t been talking to that One and I want to yell at him but I feel like there’s no point because he won’t yell back. I hate it when my tidy pieces start to fall apart and I don’t think I deserve it anymore.

on the days when I don’t believe it, I want to scrub that word right off my skin. because it feels like a lie, sitting all pretty in the crook of my elbow, telling the world that I am beloved when I am feeling the furthest from beloved. when I am feeling unlovable.

but that’s why it’s in ink, that’s why I walked into that tattoo shop. because even when I don’t believe beloved, I am still beloved. truth is like that, it’s permanent. and this truth is one that I need to be reminded of, frequently. more frequently than the good church girl in me wants to admit. this truth is one that I want to tie my whole being to: that I am dearly loved. much adored. precious.

that I am beloved.

because I think if I can rest in that, that will be enough.


5 thoughts on “beloved.

  1. Um… literally what Bethany said! (I really DO have this exact same tattoo on my foot… and I really do feel the exact same way about it!) My girlie and I got them together… and I know we need the reminder more often than the ‘good church girl’ in us both wants to admit!

    Oh and what Erin said too! Because, of course!

  2. Yes to the post and yes to the comments! I was an ink virgin until I was 59 years old, now I have two. Yes. Two. One high on my left shoulder Isaiah 49.16 (where I can hide it because, well you know, it was my first time) and this past Christmas I got my second one GAKAT boldly on my right wrist to forever remind me that God Already Knew About This. My grands like to say, “Mimi loves ink.” LOL!

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