I grew up in California, but I was born in Minnesota so my roots are in the Midwest. My family is a faithful family that went to church every Sunday, and I was baptized when I was 12. I thought of myself as generally a pretty good Christian, but I would just guess, “I think I’m good enough to get into heaven.”
Then a remarkable youth pastor changed my perspective on God, the world, and how to read the Bible. He was a crazy hippie with tons of tattoos, and he would swear a lot. I thought, “Who is this guy?!” But he was teaching me way more about Jesus than anyone else. He opened my eyes, the eyes of my youth group and eventually our church as a whole to the global nature of the Kingdom of God. He showed us that the church in the U.S. only has a limited perspective on who God is and how to live out the gospel.
When I was in college I started looking for more opportunities to know people who are different than me. I got involved in ministries, including a homeless ministry outreach. I had an awareness that we need each other globally and we can work together, even though we have a lot of differences.
Through my experiences in youth group and college ministry, I realized I didn’t have it together; I needed God’s grace to be in the Kingdom of God.
After college I moved to St. Louis for the accelerated nursing program, and I was hired as a public health nurse in East St. Louis right out of nursing school. While in school I gravitated towards geriatrics, public health and psychiatry, the three least popular areas of nursing.
It was never a huge concern to me to work in an area that wasn’t attractive to other people, but when I completed the program people joked that they were going to give me a gun as a graduation present. I was offended. I thought of East St. Louis like a little brother, other people weren’t allowed to pick on it. Through the years I worked there, if people brought it up, I was only willing to talk about it if they wanted to have a real dialogue.
I knew it wasn’t going to be easy working in public health in an area under so much oppression, but I was expecting to see more change. I hoped to see God working through me, but I wasn’t seeing that change. It was hard.
I have never seen oppression as closely as I did in my job in East St. Louis. I was the lead coordinator nurse. When kiddos got sick with lead poisoning from all the old houses with peeling lead paint, I would coordinate their care and work to get the houses fixed. I spoke with slumlords trying to get them to remove the lead. I would write them letters, but no one paid attention to letters. It was tough seeing the oppression of these families day in and day out, and I didn’t feel like I was helping.
My job was not as I pictured. I told God, “Well God, if you see me, things are going to work out, but I don’t feel like things are working out. I don’t see any change here.” It was a dark time, and I felt like I needed a physical reminder that God sees me.
One day I felt like I just couldn’t be in the office. I felt so alone and thought, “I’ve got to get out of here.” I decided to go to a tattoo shop that night and got a tattoo on my wrist of the word “Ameniona”. I’d been considering this tattoo for a while, and I walked into a place on the Loop to have it done on the spot. I told him the word I wanted and that I wanted it in a feminine scroll, and in ten minutes I had this ink stamped on my wrist that will be there forever.
I don’t speak Swahili, but we sing Swahili worship songs in church, and one of the Swahili songs is called “Ameniona,” which means, “God sees.”
Part of working as a public health nurse involved giving vaccines and physicals to kids. A lot of the moms would have their baby’s name tattooed to their wrist. When I would see that I would be heartbroken that I didn’t have any of my own babies. So another reason I wanted “Ameniona” on my wrist was to remind me that God sees me, and that’s enough. I don’t need babies to be enough.
I planned to work there until the day I died, but I left my job in East St. Louis after six years. There were more and more days when I felt like I couldn’t physically be in my office, and that made me realize I needed to leave.
In college I knew I wanted to get a tattoo of a heart—an anatomical heart, not a valentine. I loved anatomy in general and the beauty of the anatomical heart.
Ezekiel 36:26 is a powerful verse to me: “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” I found deep spiritual meaning in the image of a heart as well.
One day a long time ago I was in California near where I grew up. I saw graffiti at one of my favorite hiking spots and thought, “That’s the tattoo I want!” I took a picture, but I didn’t get the tattoo right away. It seems silly now, but I thought to myself, “I’ll get the tattoo when God gives me a heart of flesh. Once I go through something ridiculously hard, he’ll give me that heart of flesh and I’ll just know it.” I got through college, moved across the country, went to nursing school, worked for several years as a nurse, and I thought, “I can’t get my tattoo yet.” Eventually I realized I’m never going to have a fully fleshy heart; it will be a process of God transforming my heart for the rest of my life.
A couple years ago I finally got my heart tattoo on my arm. The Hebrew writing is the verse from Ezekiel. I became content with the fact that I would just be a little stony hearted and fleshy hearted at the same time. I decided, why not get that tattoo I’ve wanted for so long?
When I describe the meaning of my tattoo, some people will say, “Oh, you don’t have a stony heart!” To me, the gospel makes it clear. I may be outwardly sweet, but I’ve got my sin issues too! God making my heart flesh is a constantly redeeming work.
Anna lives in St. Louis with her husband and stepdaughter.