Two rows up and one to the left his eyes were closed and his body shook with reverence for the words that flowed like fresh water over his parched lips. From my seated position I could see only his profile, so I waited with building anticipation for the two words from the rabbi, “please rise”, which would allow my view to stretch up to the highest my 10 year tip toes could reach. From this vantage point I knew I would just barely be able to glance through the sea of friday best, and see the focus of my curiosity, his riveting arms.

From just below the nicely cuffed half sleeves of his button up shirt to the point where his wrists met his wrinkled soft hands, every part of his arms were awash in brilliant color. These beautiful tapestries read like a page from a childrens bible book, or a section of stain glass beside the temple entryway. The images of torah’s, commandments, stars of davids, and hebrew lettering were interrupted only by the occasional bucky badger (our local basketball mascot).

As I gazed upon these works of art my sunday school teachers words rang in my head, “We aren’t supposed to change our bodies, they are perfect as god made them. People with tattoos can’t be buried beside their families in jewish cemeteries.” But this man came to temple every week and prayed with his whole body. He listened to the sermon with baited breath. As others whispered among themselves and flipped through the prayer books, his eyes never left the bimah, and my eyes never left his skin.

As services drew to an end I hopped up, ready to scurry out to the lobby for punch and five or six brownies, when I noticed he hadn’t gotten up. His walker stood untouched beside him and his eyes gazed down towards the off white carpeting. I approached him in small timid steps, intending just to get a closer look at those magnificent arms on my way out, but in the moment I should I have passed by, something stopped me. I found myself seated beside him.

“Why do ya have all those tatoos?”

The words had come unbidden, but the exhilaration I felt at finally having asked removed any possibility of regret or embarrassment. He smiled at me, and in an accented voice I had so often heard raised in prayer, slowly responded.

“See this one here?” He pointed to an almost buried number on his inner arm, “I got that one many years ago at Auschwitz. I thought about getting it taken off, but decided I’d rather surround it by these beautiful pictures. It shows I did what they never wanted, I lived. And I lived with faith.” He paused here momentarily, before smiling at me again and asking, “Do you like them? Did ya see the bucky?”

I bobbed my head up and down a few times, admiring the smiling badger.

“Wanna get a brownie?” I asked

And so together we walked out of the synagogue, his radiant arms grasping his walker and leading the way.