Rambling on about being inked, scars, and the stories our bodies keep…

I have toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo for as long as I can remember. I have drawn designs, saved ideas, studied other people’s ink in grocery store lines and parking lots, and wondered, sometimes kindly, sometimes nosily, what made them choose that word, that bird, that skull, that flower, that tiny mysterious symbol behind the ear.

And yet, after all that thinking, looking, doodling, and almost-deciding, I remain officially un-inked. Not a single tattoo lives on me. But that does not mean my body is unmarked. Far from it. Life, as it turns out, is perfectly capable of doing its own body art, and it does not even ask you to sign a consent form first.

I carry a scar on my right hip, yes, my butt, if we are being anatomically honest. That one came from an old apple tree stump and a dog-walking situation that went sideways fast. The dogs split in two different directions, I lost control, and gravity introduced me to the stump. No harm, no foul, just one very permanent reminder that dogs do not always respect leash logistics.

On my left ankle, I have five scars. Those are not just marks to me… they are proof of a successful effort to make me mobile again after a bad injury. When I look at them, I do not see damage. I see hope found, prayers answered, and the blessing of being able to stand where I once could not.

There is one down my belly, starting at my navel and running about four inches. That scar marks the day I no longer had to worry about getting pregnant, because birth control and I were apparently not on the same team. I love my children deeply, but I did not want to welcome a new baby every year like some sort of full-time maternity subscription service. I had choices, and I made one.

High on my upper right thigh is another mark from my teenage years. That one came from a day spent frolicking in a pasture with a friend, playing around with horses, until one stallion got loose and decided to add a little urgency to our afternoon. My escape plan involved rolling under a barbed wire fence. It worked, mostly. My leg caught as I rolled out, leaving me with a good gash and a lifelong reminder of horses, adventure, and the fact that barbed wire is not nearly as flexible as a person hopes in a crisis.

Then there is my right knee scar. My new knee gave me a less painful life and the ability to hike without constantly wondering whether my leg was going to betray me. I count that one as another win. A surgical souvenir, yes, but also a passport stamp from the country of getting-my-life-back.

I also have five small dashes from having my gallbladder removed and from gastric bypass surgery. Those little marks may not look dramatic, but they represent relief, healing, and a new life. Small scars can carry big stories.

So no, I may not be inked. But I am tattooed by life. I am marked by chances to be better, by answered prayers, by medical miracles, by foolish adventures, by stubborn dogs, by horses with poor manners, and by memories of doing what I wanted, even when what I wanted came with stitches.

Still, the tattoo question has not left me alone. Lately, I have seen a few beautiful word tattoos, and being a wordsmith, with a deep love for words and for the messages God seems to leave for me, I have been pondering one in particular:

“God is within her; she will not fail.”

Will it happen? Will I finally take the plunge at this late age and let ink join the collection of marks already telling my story? Only time will tell. But while I decide, the marks life has already left on my body will keep me company. They are not chosen in the same way a tattoo is chosen, but they are mine. They are honest. They are earned. And every one of them has something to say…