Tattoos and Tire Irons
I know a guy who used to be a leg-breaker for a biker gang not unlike the Hell’s Angels. His name was Kim, and growing up with his name may have been a reason why he eventually ended up mixing with a biker group in the first place, whether he’d admit it or not. I was afraid of him. Kim was the guy who let you know if you had crossed their group in some undesirable way. If, perhaps, you owed them money and were overdue on a payment or had scratched the paint job on one of their motorcycles, Kim would find you and remind you with a bat or a tire iron.
I was afraid of Kim because he had tattoos and long hair and a goatee that could be braided if it were in style for bikers to do such a thing. Oh, and I was also afraid of him because he used to hurt people for a living. He wore camouflage cut-off cargo shorts with army boots in the winter because he was tough enough to do it. I don’t remember many of his tattoos specifically, though I know they were all meant to invoke fear or let on that he was no one to be messed with. I do remember some, though. On one hand he had something like the word “PAIN” or “HATE” written across his knuckles. On the other hand he had the letters “FTW.” I won’t say what the first letter stood for, but the last two stood for "The World.” It bothered me that he didn’t care enough to come up with another letter to put on his fourth knuckle. With a little creativity, he could have easily come up with something like “F--- All The World,” though it might have been a nuisance to explain that it was indeed an acronym and that Fat W was not his nickname.
I’m not sure why I gave it so much thought, but it really did give me an unsettling feeling that his last knuckle was left bare. If I had only three knuckles on one hand, I might get OCD tattooed on them. I am fortunate, however, to have all my knuckles.
Around Kim I was intimidated and intrigued all at once. Rough people always catch my eye because I’ve always wanted to be considered intimidating. In high school, all the coolest people were tough in some way. They played football or could drink the most beers at a party. If they were the coolest of the cool, it was only because they could do both. I tried football in 9th grade, but sat the bench for almost an entire season with the exception of a single punt return where I blocked a guy (a very awkward moment in the sun). They called it special teams, but I only felt special in the way that the kids who ride the short bus to school are special.
I tried drinking through most of my high school career and it earned me some acclaim, but not the kind of glory I was looking for. Apparently, passing out drunk in a pool was something they’d all seen before.
I guess I thought I needed to be intimidating because all the people who I thought were cool also intimidated me. So, logically, I continued my pursuit to be cool/scary. I still deal with that pressure today. I get tattoos and cool clothes and feign disinterest when I walk by a group of male peers. All of these are attempts to establish my place in the hierarchy of cool.
Kim had a hard exterior that would make you want to pass by on the other side of the street looking at your shoes until it was safe to turn the corner and run for your life. But not when you looked closely at his face. Looking past the thin, long, graying hair, goatee and road-weathered skin I sensed a countenance of humility and a genuine love for people. Not the kind of love that is making up for lost time as if it were owed, but real love. The kind that makes the most of the moment because they come and go so quickly and there isn’t always time to consider whether or not the recipient is worthy. The product of that attitude is never love even if we decide the person is worth it, because real love is the stuff that proceeds forth from us without reservation. I saw in Kim the kind of love that comes from a grateful heart. Such an enjoyable paradox between his outward appearance and the Light shining from inside could only have a better story behind it. I was not wrong.
It didn’t take more than two minutes in conversation with Kim before I felt comfortable enough around him to ask him questions about his tattoos and if he regretted them or wanted to cover them up. I did brace myself when I asked the question, though, ready to experience firsthand what a tire iron feels like when used like a bat on your face (as if he had one stowed away in some secret weapon compartment concealed by a wooden leg). I fancy myself a good judge of character for the most part, but I am occasionally wrong in my discernment. Nevertheless, I was ready for the worst. Nothing. No tire iron. No cracked skull. Instead, he spoke right up with a well thought out answer as if others had been brave enough to ask such a question before. He told me he would never cover them because they reminded him where he was before he met God. They were constant reminders of what God had rescued him from. While he told his story, I remember wishing I had had a dramatic conversion experience like his.
The part I remember goes like this: All his skull cracking had apparently affected him poorly, and he wasn’t dealing so well with his chosen lifestyle. He had reached the end of his rope one night and sat in his truck in a drunken depression with a shotgun held to his chin, telling God that he would change if only he would get him out of this. He had every intent to end his life that night. He doesn’t remember any details after that. Only that he woke up hung over the next morning with his head propped and resting on the gun, a round imprint of the barrel on his face. He did not forget his promise to God. Kim now serves full time in the ministry somewhere in Arizona (tattoos and all).
The funniest thing about meeting Kim is that he and my mother were pen pals for a while as a result. I can’t remember how exactly they connected. I think he called my home looking for me one night, my mom answered, and they ended up having a long, interesting conversation that led to email addresses being exchanged. It reminded me of that Pepsi Twist commercial where Ozzy Osbourne wakes up in bed with the mom from the Brady Bunch. My mom and Kim weren’t sleeping together; both are happily married. But my mom has hair similar to Mrs. Brady and Kim has hair and tattoos like Ozzy, so it seems like a good comparison. I say that to illustrate that if God can change the heart of a drugged out biker thug to the point that he feels comfortable pen-palling with Mrs. Brady about Jesus and housekeeping, then he can certainly do something in my heart. And as long as this road has seemed so far, I still may have a long way to go. But my God is faithful, so I will be patient and press on.
Paul, in his letter to the church in Philippi, told its members that he prayed for them with joy, being confident that he who began a good work in them would carry it on to completion. So here I am, a work in progress - sometimes moving slowly toward the goal, sometimes growing very quickly - but I'm moving, willing. And as long as that happens, there is hope.