She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t insult me. She didn’t argue.
She just told the truth as she saw it.
And for the first time, I felt unsure.
I watched as she walked toward the exit. For a brief second, I considered following her to explain myself further, to clarify that I was only trying to help. But something held me back.
Instead, I stood there, replaying her words in my mind.
How I look has nothing to do with you.
That afternoon, I couldn’t shake the encounter. While preparing lunch, while washing dishes, even while sitting in my favorite chair with a book in my lap, her face and her words lingered.
Was I truly defending the sanctity of the church? Or was I defending my own comfort?
I began to ask myself uncomfortable questions.
Why did her tattoos bother me so much? They didn’t harm anyone. They weren’t offensive in content, at least not from what I could see. They were simply part of her.
