A cluster of dogwood flowers are now engraved inside my left arm, a reminder of the babies who entered our lives for the shortest season. I warned the tattoo artist that I could start weeping at any point during the appointment. Instead, I winced and gritted my teeth. My tears never welled up, because the pain was only physical. The specifics of each loss already blur together in my mind, just like the flowers compete for space and complement one another.
I am still in the thick of grief.
This new tribute to my never-mets is a reminder of God's faithfulness. Each loss was painful, dark and scary. Each life, beautiful. My hope for myself and my never-born children is the same: a resurrected Savior. The Christian symbol of rebirth seemed fitting to honor the hardest experience I've yet endured.
And scars, ultimately, save me.
"Jesus himself bore our sins in his body on the cross, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed." 1 Peter 2:24 NIV
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