Permanent.

Cory got a new tattoo. This is his second (and last!) I cried when he got his first one about a year and a half ago. It's of a table and takes up his entire right forearm. A table, because Jesus did his best ministry around a table. A table, because everyone is welcome there to share the bread and the wine.  A table because if the cross is symbolic of His death, then a table must be the symbol of His life.

Pretty neat, right? I still cried. I didn't want him to get it. I just don't like tattoos. I don't find them attractive. He wanted it for a really long time and about every few months we would argue about it again. I would draw it in sharpie on his arm and ask him to do tasks around the house so I could see how different he looked with a tattoo while reaching for a glass of water, pretending to preach, or while wearing different shirts etc. He was always a good sport about it.

The table- a biblical sign on inclusiveness- was probably one of our biggest fights, like ever, in our marriage. He really wanted it and I really didn't. He just wasn't a tattoo guy to me. Whatever that means. At least he wasn't when we got married. And I was threatened by him wanting one. I was sacred of the slippery slope. What else had changed about him since we had married? Did he also secretly want a motorcycle? A piercing? Or maybe to start spending his Saturday nights kicking back a few beers? Did he wish for a more adventurous, spontaneous wife? Or, sheesh,  at least an open-minded wife?

I like things safe. I like predictability. I like consistency. And a tattoo was messing all that up for me.

I eventually said yes though. It sounds dumb now, but it was a grand gesture of love. I knew he would never do it without my ok. He's not that kind of man. He would just resign himself to be without it. Everything he does, every decision he makes, he considers me first. He loves me sacrificially in the big things and the little things. If I want to spend our tax refund on a super expensive golden doodle puppy he says "whatever you want."  And if I want to invest six weeks in earning a therapy certification that will take me away from the family he says "go for it." And if I'm craving chocolate at 10:00 at night, he tells me "be right back" and will literally get out of bed and drive to the store to get it for me.

I didn't want him to get the tattoo. But I wanted to tell him yes. I wanted to be the one to sacrifice.

Flashforward a year and a half and I am giddy about his latest (and last!) tattoo. Because it fits him. It fits with the man that I married and the man that he is now. On his left forearm in black ink are 8 symbols read from left to right that correspond with our kids first initial in either the original Greek or Hebrew lettering from the Bible.

Lamech. Tau. Samech. Yod. Kaf. Sigma. Samech. Nun. 

Levi. Titus. Seth. Judah. Canaan. Silas. Selah. Naomi. 

8 permanent symbols. 8 permanent kids. No difference between biological or adopted. When looking at a picture of our family it's pretty obvious which is which, but on Daddy's arm everybody looks the same. The kids love checking out their "name" and reciting the other siblings names in age order to figure out who goes where.

Believe it or not, I didn't cry this time. Because it feels right. It looks right. And the kids don't need to know this part... but it's pretty sexy too;)

He is forever inked. And he is forever their Daddy. Lucky kids.