The other day at a store I saw a man who made me sad. He was covered in clothing from head to foot, only his hands and his face were visible. That isn’t what saddened me. Every inch of his face and hands that I could see, except small circles at his eyes and his fingernails, were covered in black tattoos. My real-life encounter with him, merely eye contact as we stood in proximity with each other, left me profoundly sad. I carried it with me all day, days later, I still feel it.
Our culture is filled right now with people dissatisfied with themselves. We hate our hair, we fight our weight. The fashion industry claims millions and millions of our dollars each year. From a new ‘do’ to Botox and plastic surgery to gender reassignment, dissatisfied people uncomfortable in their own skins seek to change who they are in order to feel more acceptable and complete to themselves and others.
I realize that I don’t know the tattooed man. I don’t know his heart at all. I’ve never heard his voice, I don’t know if he likes peanut butter or reading poetry. I know nothing about him, and I own that my conclusions about our brief connection come from ignorance of him. But. I can conclude that the desire and willingness to effect such drastic, permanent changes and completely obscure one’s face and hands with thick, roiling ink indicates some sort of well-depth dissatisfaction. Does he think himself ugly? Does he crave love and attention he didn’t get with rosy cheeks? Whatever his motivation, I wish that instead of the weak smile I managed before looking away and concentrating on my own business, I had smiled and greeted him. I wish that I would have had the courage and love to approach him. I wish I could have found the words to assure him that he was perfectly created, and that Jesus not only loves him, but died for his salvation.
