Washed in the blood of the Lamb and Lovesme like the Rock of Ages

It had been a long, long Monday. I was on my way home, later than I had planned, and I got a call from D on my cell phone when I was at an intersection less than a mile from home. All he said was, "Come home right now."

When I walked into the door, I felt fairly confident that some form of chaos would greet me, and I was not disappointed. In the kitchen stood D and baby J, both of whom were covered in blood. And the baby was screaming hysterically. As I quickly surveyed the scene, I noticed that D had blood all over his white t-shirt, and J, who was not wearing a shirt, not only had bood smeared all over his chest but also had it smeared all around his mouth. I quickly learned that J had cut his finger and that it probably didn't require stitches, but that it would require two adults to subdue and bandage him to stop the bleeding. About 30 more minutes of drama ensued as we worked to clean and bandage him. I am always amazed at D's prowess at any kind of first aid. His training as a boy scout has always served us well.

So after we got J bandaged and cleaned up, he was still quite hysterical. I turned off the light in his room, and I sat in our rocking chair where the two of us have spent many long hours since the beginning of his life, in moments of quiet communion, first nursing and praying, and now reading, and singing and rocking. I held him closely, and I rocked him, and I sang to him. And I reflected.

First, I thought about the shocking image of seeing my 15 month old baby with blood smeared all over his face and around his mouth. D had told me that after J cut his finger, he had immediately put it in his mouth to try to make it feel better. But it was quite a disturbing sight to witness. Then I thought about how prominent a part blood plays in our weekly liturgy and how domesticated it has become for me. It took that shocking image of my child with his blood all over his face and all over his father for me to remember that Jesus talking about his own body and blood in the Last Supper isn't normal. It's disturbing. There's a violence that is associated with blood, for most people do bleed of their own free will. But there is also an earthiness there. It is the life-force of our bodies, a natural accompaniment to giving birth.

As I rocked and sang and comforted my baby, I thought about Paul Simon's song "Loves me like a rock", which to me is about the steadfastness of a mother's love through all stages and positions of life.

Haven't quite figured out how the two fit together, but I'll be thinking about it.

In the meantime, check out Paul Simon and the Muppets.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0MrckjR4E_M&feature=related