I have a tattoo on my chest. It’s the first tattoo I really liked though it turned out to be my 3rd tattoo and most probably the last as well. (Not everyone saw this before. Not even my dad, if he sees it, he might do another sermon time. I don’t mind. That’s his right anyway.) But anyway, let me share to you the story behind this tattoo.
Growing up, I always asked myself the meaning of home. Just like every family, ours is imperfect. My parents were always busy, we had conflicts, and etc. And I always ask if home is the same as house. I knew it’s not ’cause it’s better than this concrete building that we have. As I grew older, it is always my dream to find my home. Well, maybe I haven’t found it yet or maybe I found it already but haven’t recognized it. All I know is that I put it on my chest because I know that home is something close to my heart. Something or someone who would take care of it no matter how lost I think I am. And despite all my struggles right now, I know I still want to meet whoever or whatever it is. I want to recognize home at least before I am gone.