Tattoos hurt.
But they are art so we bare with it for the result.
The artist (hopefully if all went well) brags to friends about how fast and sharp he threw up the piece on your arm.
“Nah, the pain wasn’t that bad. Only 6 hours of work.” You respond to the inquiries hoping for that nod of affirmation that -yes, you are a bad ass.

Allowing Jesus to work on us hurts.
It is uncomfortable.
He may brag to the angels how great we are doing, how proud he is of us but we don’t come out looking like a bad ass, at least not to our eyes.

I am on a solitude retreat right now.
Sitting still.
Allowing God to work on me.
Show me pieces of me I never knew were there.
Lousy prison tats.
He is doing a clean up job.
And it is beautiful.
When I go home I am sure I will complain.
I won’t like the colors he chose.
It should be a little smaller or more to the right.
But that is a slam on his art.
And he only does perfect work.

So I will go back.
I will bite a sock and ask for more.
Lay out on that plastic table.
Awkward, half naked and a little scared
and ask,
What are you thinking now Jesus?
I am ready.

Tiny pricks on my skin
The ink sinks in
The blood rises
I am a masterpiece
Of my Fathers hand.