When your 22nd wedding anniversary falls on the day before Easter, at the end of yet another week of scary news headlines, it’s hard to know how to commemorate the occasion on your blog (especially if you don’t normally post on Saturdays or spend a lot of time writing about marriage).
Sometimes, though, it’s OK to forget about what may or may not be appropriate blogging behavior and just go with your heart. And as I look forward to celebrating our risen Savior tomorrow, my heart says to post this today.
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Randy has been talking for a long time about replacing his wedding ring with a tattoo. His gold ring itches, he says, and he’s constantly taking it off and rubbing his finger.
I don’t see what the big deal is. I would much rather scratch my finger than get a tattoo. I don’t like needles or pain; plus, I really love my own rings and only take them off when I’m running on the treadmill.
I have a good friend with a wedding-ring tattoo, though. And sitting in church recently, I noticed that the person in front of me—the worship pastor’s wife, in fact—also has one. Granted, both of these lovely women are at least a decade younger than Randy and me, and when it comes to things like body art, there’s definitely a generation gap.
But it made me think.
Maybe he should get a tattoo.
Later that day, I tell him what I had noticed in church.
“I would love to get a tattoo and not have to wear this ring anymore,” he says again.
“It would have to say ‘Randy loves Lois,’ ” I tell him.
No random design will do for us.
“Oh, I would just get your name tattooed with two rings around it,” he returns.
Suddenly, I’m all ears.
“You would put MY name on your finger? Lois? My old-aunt name?”
The thought nearly reduces me to tears.
“I’d just tell people it was my mom,” he replies with a smile.
(Did I ever tell you how much I adore my husband?)