Jesus in a Tattoo Parlour

I met Jesus in a tattoo parlour.

And, no it wasn't anything like that picture.

But, seriously.

Don't worry, don't worry.  I wasn't going in for a second tattoo.  This time, I was simply accompanying a friend as moral support.  Trust me, the pain is still very real in my mind... no new needle artwork for me anytime soon.

Anyway... let me set the stage for you.  So, there's this tattoo parlour in Gainesville, Georgia.  And if you didn't know any better, you might be a little suspicious.  I mean, it is located in a building that sits behind a gas station.  But, it's legit, I promise.  And they have very nice curtains in the windows... which, sadly to say, was the basis on which I originally picked this place.  Super intelligent, I know.

So, back to the meeting Jesus thing.  As we walked in the door, we were instantly greeted by this, big, tough, burly, tatted-up biker dude.  You know, the stereotypical guy that comes to your head when you think tatto parlor.  Exact replica.  There he is, just sitting back, ever so nonchalantly scanning the room.  We gently slide into the nearby chairs, and as all good missionaries do, start up a quick conversation.   One thing led to another, and soon we were talking about the Race and all of our adventures from the past year.  All of a sudden, as if the guy's chair caught on fire, he quickly shoots up and says... "hold on, i'll be right back" and all but skips out of the room.

Awesome.  Our stories even scare off tough, biker dudes.

However, within seconds he returns holding this crumbled up piece of paper, words blotted and scattered throughout the page.  He sits back down, looks shyly at his paper and says "I wrote something down this morning and I just really want to share it with ya'll.  I knew someone would need to hear this today."

He sits up straight, clears his throat, and begins reading these beautiful, gut wrenching, lines of poetic verse.  He speaks so eloquently about the scars, the impurities, and the imperfections of our lives.  He reminds us that those things aren't reminders of disgrace or defeat.  That instead they are reminders of VICTORY.  Those wounds are our badges; they are our medals of HONOR.  Those scars tell of our experience, of our journey, of our story.  Those imperfections are a reminder that we choose to fight alongside the greatest warrior of all time.  These blemishes tell of our commitment to choose into this battle to follow Christ.  And he finishes with a line that says...

"and if you don't have any deep scars to show... then you haven't really been chasing after Jesus."

Umm.  Excuse me, who are you again?

As he finishes up, he looks up at all of us and with such great sincerity in his eyes and continues speaking.  "Yesterday was a hell of a day.  As we woke up, my wife and I, we could feel the enemy lines approaching.  We knew that they were starring us right in the face.  And at that point, early in the day, we knew we had a choice to make.  We had to decide then and there if we were going to fight or be overcome."  He pauses for a bit, as if picturing the battle scene in his own head all over again; then with a grin he says "And at the end of the day, before we went to bed, we looked back on the day; we looked back on the battle.  The one we chose to fight.  Our bodies were tired, pierced, and wounded.  There were newer and deeper scars to add.  But, we were still alive.  We were still standing.  At the end of the day, we were able to look back on the battle field and physically see the VICTORY that is promised."

See.  I told you I met Jesus in a tattoo parlour.

I don't know who this guy is.  I don't know his story.  I don't know what life looks like for him on a daily basis.  I don't know why he chose to share this absolutely beautiful nugget of wisdom with us that day.

What I do know, is that God works in unexpected ways.
What I do know, is that God lives and dwells in unexpected places.
What I do know, is that God doesn't just live in the church.
What I do know, is that He doesn't just exist in "holy" places.

This guy may not be accepted in our modern day church, but he absolutely knows his Father.  He may not hang out in the crowds of people we consider to be "christian", but neither did Jesus.  He may not look like your typical missionary, but he certainly knows what it means to stand in the middle of the battlefield.

There's a battle to be fought, and victory to be won.  And you better believe I want people just like him standing beside me on the front lines.

Part Two: Tattoo

It's official.

I got a tattoo.

WHAT?! That sweet, little Baptist girl from the bible belt of Arkansas permanently marked her body with Satan ink? Yup. well, something like that.

I've actually been thinking about this tattoo thing for a while. Well for 11ish months anyway. You see, this year has been such a pivotal year in my life and I wanted something to commemorate that. To be a reminder of the amazing truths revealed in and over my life. And, what better way than a tattoo, right?

So, I should probably go ahead and preface this story with the fact that needles quite often cause me to pass out. Awesome. Like the time that I gave blood. Or the time I had to get 473 shots to make sure I didn't contract any crazy diseases while overseas (okay, so maybe it was more like 5). Or the time when a transvestite pierced my nose, without using a piercing gun, I might add, for $1.50 in Thailand. (Just ask Stacey Hume, she will be more than happy to give you the dramatic version of that story). Long story short, I don't do well with needles. There, I said it.

So, a couple weeks back I was sitting across the table from my good friend Ashley Musick. Just chatting about life, eating a scrumptious meal after a morning at church, when I notice the tattoo on her wrist. I quickly begin to inquire about the design, where she got it done, and the ever famous question of "how bad did it hurt?" She sweetly answers all my questions and then pauses to ask... "wait, do you have a tattoo?"

Before I know it, I am sharing with her about this huge theme of my life. About my identity in Christ. About how this year has been absolutely monumental is establishing who I am as a daughter of a King. About the fact that I no longer am obligated to the things of this world, that I belong to a greater kingdom, and that I am ROYALTY.

That's it. My tattoo. ROYALTY.

That word alone reminds me so quickly of who I am. Not what I do, but who I am. Of that one thing in my life that can never be changed, never be taken. I forever am the daughter of the King of Kings, and while I am here on earth I have a responsibility to that Kingdom.

Royalty.

"That's perfect." Ashley replies. "Let's go get it."

Wait. What? Now. Oh yeah... P.S. I am probably going to pass out. Maybe throw up. And you will have to hold my hand. Still wanna go?

We called a couple of friends and then quickly searched the internet for local tattoo shops, scribbled down a few addresses, and jumped in the car. All to soon be reminded that it is Sunday. No tattooing on Sunday. Bummer. Apparently making sure you can't buy alcohol or get tattoos on Sundays makes you holier. Hmmmm....

To shake off the "no tattoo" blues, I settled for a very large cone of Bruster's Ice Cream, most which most ended up on either the ground or my dress (yes, I still have a couple of 5 year old tendencies). However, still very determined to be brave and go through with this.

Finally the day arrives. Tattoo Tuesday. My friend Ashley and I march back down to the tattoo place, brave pants pulled up high. I walk in, expecting to have at least a short wait, and quickly find myself sitting on a vinyl covered, black stool with my left arm extended in front of me, the layout of the word ROYALTY starring back. In front of me sits a very burly man, tattoos up and down his arm, ink gun in his hand. Yup. We're at the right place.

I am determined that I will not pass out. Determined, mind you. I quickly look over at Ashley and say "Just don't let him stop at ROY. Whatever happens, he must finish." She gives a quick giggle and before I know it the buzzing of the gun begins. I turn back to Ashley "Quick, tell me a story. Anything." Bless her heart, she does her very best to keep me distracted... but soon enough I find my eyes getting a little blurry. And then there's that blasted ringing sound. Sweat droplets start to form on my forehead. I've only made it two letters in and I am not fairing well. This can't be good.

The lady behind the front counters steps in to check on me, and quickly sees that I am not doing so hot. Before I know it, she has a jar full of sugary snacks in front of me, asking which one I want. "Do you want cherry, or strawberry? or Watermelon or grape?" Really, lady. I don't care. I just want it to be in my mouth. Now.

Left arm still on the table. Right hand holding Ashley's. Sucker stick hanging out the side of my mouth... I finish my tattoo like a champ. Even found the courage to watch as he finished off the second half. Brave pants still on. Tattoo adventure. Success.

Will I still love my tattoo 40 years from now? Who knows? But, even 40 years from now it will still speak boldly of who I am. Even now, multiple times a day my tattoo will catch my eye. And each time it's a quick reminder of this year of my life. It's a quick reminder of my purpose. Of my identity. Of my responsibility to the Kingdom. Of life abundantly greater than I can ever imagine.

I am ROYALTY. And so are you.

Part One: Identity Crisis

just a couple of days ago i officially started packing up the room i grew up in.  i removed all the plaques from the walls, and then stared down into boxes full of trophies, awards, pictures, and other mementoes of my childhood.  don’t worry, even at 25 my parents aren’t kicking me out just yet.  instead, i am packing up and repainting this room so that when the time officially comes, my new haitian sister will have a room to call her own (which is a whole other blog in itself).

piece by piece, i was vividly reminded of who i am.  maybe more so of who i was.  you see, i’ve always been the kind of person who got something in my head, went after it, succeeded, and then had the paperwork to show it.  a box full of academic awards; scholarship achievements, 4.0 plaques, the most outstanding graduate award from my college, and the dried up flowers from my homecoming court debut.  a box of church related awards; scripture memory achievements, religious debate awards, service project acknowledgements.  a box full of leadership achievements and fancy invitations to special events and conferences.  and finally, a box filled with athletic achievements; player of the game awards, all conference team acknowledgements, along with trophies and medals from multiple summer league championships.

and while all those shiny awards and achievements once claimed the walls and shelves of my room, it felt fitting to finally pack them into boxes.  that’s not to say that any of those achievements were wrong or unwarranted.  the issue lies within the fact that competition, success, and perfection were the driving forces of my life.  they defined who i was, they defined my expectations, they defined my identity.  without them, i would have fallen short.  i would have failed.  and failure was never an option.

yet throughout this past year, God has slowly (and quite painfully) begun to strip me of what i once thought was my identity.  what i once thought i had to live up to.  of the perfection i thought was necessary in my life, especially in my walk with Him.  instead of perfection, i experienced failure.  instead of always being able to succeed, i found myself in situations that i could not change, circumstances i could not overcome.  over and over, i fell on my face.   over and over, i sat in brokenness.  over and over, i was reminded that falling short is what warrants my desperate need for my Papa. 

each time i fell, my Papa picked me up and spoke graciously into my identity.  into who i really was.  those things, all the expectations i had once lived up to, they aren’t who i am.  they are temporary, all set by my own expectations.  instead, this year i have been reminded that who i am is a child of God.  who i am is a daughter of a king.  i am ROYALTY.  i did nothing to deserve that status.  nor can i do anything to take it away.  it's who i am, it's ingrained deep into my being.  nothing about that is temporary.  that’s who i am, that’s who i’ve always been.  nothing, not even life can take that away.

no amount of awards or successes can increase his love for me.  no amount of memory verses will change the way he sees me.  i already belong to him, i belong to his kingdom, i have been adopted into the royal family, and i have an inheritance to claim.  my identity lies in Him and Him alone.  i am called to step into that royalty, to acknowledge my responsibility to the kingdom, and walk alongside the king of kings.  the one who created all claims ME as his own... that’s all He expects of me, to simply be His.

Training Camp Recap

This particular blog goes out to my WORLD RACE ALUMNI. Just a little bit of life for me post race, and you need to read it. Okay, so maybe NEED is too strong of a word.


A couple of weeks back, I loaded up all my WR gear again (what was left of it) and jumped in my car for a long drive into the woods of Tennessee to help out at the most recent training camp. It wasn’t necessarily something I had planned on attending, but after exhausting all forms of entertainment at home, I figured at least it would be a nice change of pace. I mean, it had been a whole month... isn’t this when I am supposed to pack up my bags and move somewhere new?


I don’t know exactly what my expectations were. I went ready to cook, to clean, to set up, to tear down, do whatever needed to be done. I knew I would be surrounded by my community, get some hard truth from Michael Hindes, and be able to experience some crazy, spirit filled jam sessions with the Helser band... that was enough for me.


What I quickly found out was that I actually needed that training camp, maybe just as much as the new squads who had yet to embark on this crazy whirlwind journey. I needed to be reminded of my purpose, of my calling, of my freedom, of the fact that being home from the race doesn’t mean that the lifestyle I adopted and fought hard for over the last 11 months has to end. I needed to be able to share my experiences with my generation, to be able to be on the return side of things and assure those eager, scared, anxious faces that this crazy journey would absolutely be worth it.


There’s definitely a beautiful thing about being on the other side of a training camp. To see the process, to rejoice in the huge changes in life, and to be able to fall facedown and admit that I still don’t even slightly have things figured out! And to be able to experience that while surrounded by a community of people that can fuel that process and love me fiercely while doing so. A community so much bigger than just my squad. An extended family like no other; an extended family of some of the most amazing, prophetic, life speaking, world changers you will ever meet.


Returning for a training camp turned out to not only be a phenomenal experience, but also vital part of the whole re-entry process for me. I’ve decided that the world race community is kind of like chocolate (hang in there with me, this gets good). You know that chocolate is great. Chocolate definitely adds some flavor to life. But it’s not until you go spend 11 months overseas that you realize chocolate is not only really great, but it is absolutely a vital part of daily survival!!  This community, this truth, this freedom is vital, and it doesn’t have to end just because we are back in the US. We now have the experience, the opportunity and the responsibility to be a part of this process for other people, don’t miss out!

Current State: Uncertain

oh, july.  you are proving to be quite an interesting month.

in the past two weeks, i’ve spent around 22 hours on the road, been in 5 different states and slept in 6 different beds.  sadly enough,  life almost feels normal again.

last week i met up with my world race family in the woods of tennessee to shake up another group of world changers as they got a small taste of the kingdom journey they are about to embark on.  we sang, we danced, we cried, we laughed... and, just as promised, the Holy Spirit showed up in a mighty big way.  i ran around like a mad woman all week long; loving, serving, praying, and enjoying the ridiculously amazing community that is my world race family.  very little sleep was had, but it was absolutely worth every minute of being there.  those are my people, hands down.

after saying another round of “see ya when I see ya” I headed even farther south to alabama for a week on the beach with the family.  RELAXATION.  finally.  or so i thought.

day one of vacation, i crack my tooth.  awesome.  shouldn’t be too bad, right?  i’ll get it taken care of when i get back home.  wrong... by day two my whole upper jaw is throbbing.  i try to tough it out, thinking a nap out on the beach should do the trick.  45 minutes later i was literally crawling back to the room and dialing the phone number of the first dentist i could find.  so much for relaxation.  to add to that, the next open appointment they have is the following morning.  a whole night of intense throbbing pain.  excellent.  this news may have warranted me to extend the normal dosage for ibuprofen that evening, but did in fact make it through the night.

day three of my relaxing beach vacation and i find myself sitting in the local dentist office.  two x-rays, a poking around, and $87 later they send me off with two prescriptions and advice to see my dentist when i get home.  yup.  that just happened.  the only upside, one prescription is for a strong dosage of hydrocodone.  hollar!  maybe i will get some rest after all.  or at least be able to forget about the fact that when i get home, i will have an expensive dental appointment to schedule.  did i mention that i have no dental insurance?  more drugs, please?

day four turned out quite well.  that of it which i managed to stay awake.  day five was even proving to be off to a good start, made it all the way though dinner before the next catastrophe; dropping my two week old iPhone on the pavement and cracking the entire screen.  shattered.  completely.  definitely wishing i had found the otter box a more important investment.  oops.

another expense to add to the list, so it seems.  and as i all but banged my head against my car door, i couldn't help but wonder how in the world i was going to pay for all of this.  the term “poor missionary” was now becoming much more of a reality, and before i knew it i sat there questioning my future.  is money going to be a constant battle?  am i ridiculous for thinking that all the things i will ever need will just be provided?  is this sort of life actually do-able?

in that moment, i was reminded of the words of prophecy spoken over me throughout the year.  words from my teammates, words from friends back home, words from women in south africa, words from a korean women in malaysia.  all confirming God’s call on my life.  that i am called to something greater.  something bigger.  something that doesn’t make sense in the mind of man.

so, despite the unrelaxing state of my vacation, despite the nagging pain in my upper left jaw, despite the disabling of my connection to the outside world... i choose not to be discouraged.  i choose not to be overwhelmed.  i choose rest.  i choose peace.  i choose to trust in the provision of my Papa.  

i am well aware that this promise of provision may not look anything like i think that it should, but i also know that it’s a promise He intends to keep.

“and my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.” (Phil 4.19)

Stories to Share

as i sit here typing on my big comfy couch, wrapped up in a blanket, sitting in front of a television too big for my own good, with the smell of home cooked food in the air, i can't help but feel on edge.  so little has changed.  and yet this time around i feel so out of place.

as i looked into my closet yesterday, the abundance made me utterly nauseous.  the fact that i happened to have 7 different bottles of shampoo in my shower didn't help.  in just a few hours after getting home, i quickly found my big, red, beaten up backpack looking luxurious again.  part of me desperately wanted to just throw my three outfits and two pairs of shoes in the bag and call it a day.

but, this is reality.  this is my home.  these are my people.

and while i find it overwhelming to try to figure out how the person i now am fits into the world of who i once was, i know that i'm here right now for a reason.  i now have a story to tell.  i now have words that can't go unspoken.  and there are so many people that deserve to hear it.  more, even so, that need to hear it.

so, after spending the whole day sorting through and downsizing my entire wardrobe, i think i have regained a small bit of my sanity... for the time being anyway.  i'm not quite ready to face the world (or go shopping in walmart), but hopefully i'll get there eventually.  

because this story is BIG, and my world needs to hear it.

The Cat Lady

Sometimes I wish you all could meet the interesting characters we run into on this adventure around the world. I can confidently say that in this year alone I have seen, done and experienced some of the most random things ever possible. One thing is for sure, every day has the possibility of being highly entertaining. 

For instance, let me introduce you to one of my newest friends, Iing. I like to refer to her simply as the cat lady of Penang. Please, note that this is not just a cat lady... this is THE cat lady. You see, Iing loves the cats. All the cats. But, especially stray, street cats. Actually to say that she loves them might even be an understatement. Iing spends her days browsing the streets for cans and other recyclable items in which she can cash in to buy cat food. Then in the evening, she sets up camp on a local sidewalk, lays out food... and voile, instant cat lady. 

Last night, myself, my friend Jon Bunford, and a couple other volunteers made a visit to Iing's part of the neighborhood. As we approached her street, Iing was pacing up and down the sidewalk, bantering under her breath in rapid Mandarin. She was clearly worried about something. After some interpretation, we found out that the nervous pacing was due to the cats. This night in particular, there were about 5 or 6 cats in the area. Iing begins pointing at the cats one by one, still speaking rapidly in her local tongue. Worried about Iing, we inquire as to what we can do for her. After a couple of seconds, with a small grin on her face, our translator looks up at us shyly and says "she says she wants you to pray for the cats. All the cats need prayer, but especially the small black one over there. That one needs prayer the most." 

Pray for the cats, huh? That's definitely a new one. 

I quickly look over at my friend Jon trying desperately to figure out how we are going to go about doing this all while keeping a straight face. In being culturally appropriate to the gender rules in Malaysia, he simply smiles and says "so, should we check underneath and see which one of us has to do this?" 

 Just about this time, one of the cats lets out a deep hiss. "More importantly," he adds "have you had your rabies shot?" 

Trying to hold it together, I take one glance back at my friend Iing, give her a slight head nod and walk towards the cats. Then and there, myself, Jon, and another volunteer stretch out our arms and begin to pray.

"So, God, I never thought I would be standing on a street corner praying for cats. Especially ones that are hissing, possibly diseased, and that could attack me at any moment. But, here I am. Father, I know your probably more of a dog person, like me, but considering you made the cats you probably still love them too. So, bless the cats. Bless the yellow cat, and the gray cat, and the spotted cat, and the black cat. Especially the black cat.

Apparently he needs your help a little more than the others. Amen." 

And that was that. 

We then finished up our conversation with Iing, who had calmed down considerably since the cats had been prayed over, and I just stood there and grinned as I thought about all the ridiculous things I have experienced this past year. And yet, every bit of it has revealed small pieces of God's character. A bit of God's character exists within the crazy cat lady on that street corner. A bit of his character exists within the exuberant woman who sings at the top of her lungs from the alleyway. A bit of his character exists within the highly animated tricycle driver who claps along to a tune only he can hear. 

God is much more exciting than we sometimes give him credit for. And more importantly His sense of humor never ceases me make me laugh.