‬‬‬‬As I stood in line to pay for gas at a local convenience store, I couldn’t help but notice
that the lady in front of me was covered in tattoos … tattoos everywhere … all kinds of
tattoos, with no particular theme. She had a young boy with her who was no more than
four or five and as she paid for her gas, the clerk pulled out a jar of lollipops and asked
the boy if he wanted one. The youngster glanced back at his mom, eyes wide and a big
smile and he asked, “Can I?” She nodded and the boy eagerly reached inside and took
a red one. “Thank you!” He said. As they exited the store he turned and  let out an
enthusiastic “Thank you” to the clerk.‬‬‬‬‬‬
“That,” I thought to myself, “Is because his mom is a good mother.” Then I had a pang
of guilt. I have nothing against tattoos.  I have family with tattoos. If I think this thing with
Angie is going to work out, I may even get her name tattooed on my arm.  Then why did
it surprise me that this lady’s little boy was not running around in the store like a little
demon, talking back to his mother, and grabbing a handful of the coveted suckers?
It’s because I don’t always look at people through God’s eyes.  I forget that he doesn’t
see what I see when I look at the young goth girl with pink hair, or the grizzled
motorcycle rider.  I forget that God doesn’t care about pigmented skin, dyed hair, or
leather vests.  He sees the heart.  That’s all. We would do well … I would do well … to
remember that.