Removing Blood Stains

The cozy sanctuary of this morning's Bible study was interrupted by my father opening the door. His serious eyes searched for mine as he beckoned me to come.

"It's Amelia. She's hurt herself."

A mommy's heart sinks at those words.

Then I learned the facts: the twins had sneakily gone cabinet shopping while Oma took a quick phone call. Butter-fingered Emerson then let an unopened jar of jelly drop two feet onto Amelia's hand. And now her finger was cut, bleeding, and swelling.

In seconds, I had gone from the quiet serenity of understanding God's word with my ladies to the anxiousness of not knowing how serious my daughter's condition was.

The adrenaline of a mother called into action surged through me. Hazard lights flashing, I drove as fast as I thought wouldn't get me killed on empty back country roads. Visions of stitches and surgery roared through my head as I spun into the gravel drive, seat belt off before the van was even in park.

And there she sat on the rug with Oma--not crying, not even caring that she was bleeding on everything. Her shoes, her outfit, her cheek--smeared with blood.

So much blood from such a small finger--steadily painting everything it touched with deep crimson drops.

At the pediatrician's office, the lady doctor smashed the finger again, making it bleed all the more. Her instructions: watch for increased swelling and come back in tomorrow to drill a hole in the nail if it is worse.

In the meantime, no band aids because she might swallow them and choke. Just let it bleed and keep it clean with antibacterial soap and ointment. Easy instructions from someone not having to clean up the bloody mess.

Two pair of shoes, two outfits, bedclothes and blanket, my shirt, Emerson's clothes, the linoleum tile, the stuffed rocking dog--and that's just to name a few on my list to clean. At one point this afternoon after Amelia tripped and caught herself with her hurt hand, I held her crying form as blood dripped down my neck.

I've washed my hands until they're dry and begging for a drink of lotion. But they still have that metallic smell.

As I stood at the washer to scrub the blood stains out of my shirt this evening, my mind went back to Mary. I know we remember Jesus' birth this time of year, but the events of today have reminded me of the cross, of the sacrificial blood Jesus shed.

Scripture tells us Mary stood beneath that cross. As the blood streamed down my Savior's body and gravity brought the drops to the foot of the cross, it's likely her clothes were stained with that precious blood. In her poverty, she probably just couldn't throw those clothes away.

It's not found in Scripture, but I still wonder if she stood, like me, scrubbing the life blood of her child from her garments.

My mother's heart pains with that thought. And it wonders.