Bleeding Wounds

It was the perfect place to play.
At the end of our street, a massive tree trunk lay across the road.
It did not fall there on its own; it was purposefully placed there.
The builder wanted to close off the road to traffic.

Our street would eventually connect to another neighborhood.
That neighborhood was in the final phases of building.
Until it was completed, the tree trunk remained.
For us mothers it was perfect, a cul-de-sac on one end, a tree trunk on the other.

The only cars that ever came down the street were the few families that lived there.
It was safe and self-contained.
We knew that we were spoiled, but we enjoyed every minute of it while it lasted.
Older siblings took care of younger siblings; everyone felt very independent.

Mom, can I climb on the log? the word now used to describe the barrier.
All the neighborhood children gathered there.
They walked on the log as a balance beam, they sat on it, and they used it as home base.
No amusement park could have been any better.

There were three of us mothers who were expecting babies at the time.
One woman had three daughters, another woman had four sons, and I had two daughters.
Each of us wondered if we would have the opposite sex of the children we already had.
It was a wonderful time of sharing and being there for each other.

One spring afternoon, the house was quiet as my girls were playing up the street.
I was doing laundry and heard my name being screamed instead of spoken.
It was my older daughter trying desperately to tell me what happened.
MOM! She’s hurt. There’s blood coming down her face!

I left the house determined to get to her as fast as I could.
I ran down the street as fast as a woman seven months pregnant could go.
I did not know what I would find when I got there.
My younger daughter was being guided down the street towards me; crying and afraid.

All the other mothers came out when they heard the commotion.
The mom with the four boys was used to injuries and came alongside me.
My little girl’s face was covered with blood coming from a gash on her forehead.
Cuts on the face always bleed more because as the child cries, they scrunch their face.

The mother of all the boys came back to the house with me.
I lifted my little girl on the kitchen counter so I could get a better look.
The gash was deep, right near her hairline.
Blood was everywhere, even on me as I held her.

The other mom, as if on autopilot, handed me a wet towel to wipe off most of the blood.
She held a compress on the gash to stop the bleeding.
She told me to call the doctor and tell him we were on our way.
She told me to get new clothes for my daughter because the blood will make her afraid.

I was so grateful for her calming presence.
Another neighbor drove us to the doctor’s office.
I sat in the backseat with my little girl’s head in my lap.
I looked down and realized that I never changed my maternity shirt.

I was covered with blood.
It was too late to worry about that now; I hoped it wouldn’t add to her fear.
We reached the doctor and were seen right away.
Stitches were needed.

If it was my daughter, and it was her face, I would want the stitches done right.
I would want minimal scarring.
He arranged for us to see a surgeon that was in the same medical building.
All of this was done in a matter of minutes.

We went right back to a room; my daughter was placed on the table.
She was crying so hard, I was told she had to be “papoose-ed”.
I had never seen this before and it reminded me of a straightjacket.
I don’t know what was worse, the accident itself or the papoose they put her in.

I looked up as someone entered the room.
I was so relieved when I saw my husband’s face.
It was the support I needed.
I held her hand and told her to look into my eyes while the doctor stitched her wound.

It was later discovered that one of the older boys was pretending to golf.
However, not having any golf balls, he used small rocks.
One of those rocks hit her in the forehead.
It was an accident; I actually felt bad for him as he struggled with what he had done.

After that incident, the log was not fun anymore.
Soon after that accident, they removed the tree trunk and opened the road.
All of us moms did have babies of the opposite sex of the children we already had.
The street was overflowing with children; as it should be.

But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon Him, and by His wounds we are healed. (Isaiah 53:5)

Jesus bled down His face from the crown of thorns placed on His head.
Jesus bled from His wounds from the scourging He received for us.
The Innocent was wounded for the guilty.
Blood flowed so that we could be free.

We are not condemned.
Jesus took our place and suffered for us.
The spotless Lamb was silent before the shearers.
Jesus’ perfect Blood was shed for us.

Precious Lord Jesus, Your Father had to watch You bleed so that we could be saved.
How difficult that must have been. Thank you, Lord Jesus that by Your wounds, we are healed.