The Ledger

By Becky Holland

I have a confession.

I have a tattoo.

It isn’t a giant dragon crawling up my arm or one of those full sleeves that look like an art museum. Mine is a little butterfly, tucked away on my right shoulder.

I got it during a spring break trip to Meridian, Mississippi, near the military base. My friend BJ and I decided we were brave enough to get tattoos. She chose a much larger, more elaborate design.

I chose a butterfly.

It cost me $25 and about three days’ worth of nerves before I finally admitted to my parents what I’d done.

That was about 25 years ago.

How is that even possible?

The tattoo artist probably has great-grandchildren by now.

There’s actually a reason I chose a butterfly, and one day I’ll tell you that story. Today isn’t about the butterfly.

It’s about Grandma Holland.

The first time she noticed it, I was wearing a sleeveless shirt to church.

Unfortunately for me.

During the offertory prayer, she glanced over, spotted the butterfly on my shoulder and quietly pulled out a Kleenex.

Without saying a word, she started rubbing my shoulder.

She honestly believed it would wipe right off.

I couldn’t exactly whisper, “Grandma, stop scrubbing me,” in the middle of prayer, so I grabbed a church bulletin and scribbled a note.

“It won’t come off. It’s a tattoo.”

She read it.

Her eyes got as big as saucers.

Then came the sound.

If you knew my grandmother, you know exactly what sound I’m talking about.

It wasn’t quite a gasp.

It wasn’t quite a sigh.

It was that low clicking sound that translated into, “Lord, give me strength because this child has lost her ever-loving mind.”

She didn’t lecture me in church.

She didn’t have to.

At Sunday lunch, she gave me The Stare.

I’m pretty sure Daddy got the full report.

My sister Tracey had a tattoo, too—a rose on her ankle.

Our older brother and sister skipped tattoos altogether.

Funny how every generation has its thing that makes the previous generation shake its head.

For me and Grandma, it was tattoos.

Tomorrow it’ll probably be something else.

Looking back, I don’t regret the butterfly.

It’s become part of my story.

And honestly, every time I catch a glimpse of it in the mirror, I don’t think about that tattoo shop in Mississippi.

I think about Grandma…

…trying with all her might to erase it with a Kleenex during the offertory prayer.

Some memories never fade.

Thankfully.