I was flipping through the mail at the dining room table, and barely heard it.
I turned to the three year old sitting beside me. "What did you say?"
"He left his blood on that cross, Mommy."
I looked at the cartoon drawing of three crosses on his Awana Cubbies book. The middle cross. The one that Silas was pointing at, was white. Pure white.
"I don't see any blood on that cross."
Adamantly, he said again, "Yeah, he left his blood on that cross, Mommy."
I looked again at the cross and tried not to freak at my child's morbid thinking.
After several moments, however, I was able to agree with him, "Jesus died on a cross, and although he didn't stay there, I guess his blood did."
He suffered. He bled. He died. He experienced pain, heartache, injustice, and great loss. Yet, when he died, it all stayed behind. His blood was left on the cross.
The scars remained, but the pain was a memory. The blood was washed away with the rain. It ran down the mountain and pooled by the accuser's feet. Though it soaked the wooden cross and stained the rocks it dripped on, it was no longer causing our Savior pain. Its existence served as a reminder. A reminder of the greatest sacrifice. A reminder to the people of God that although pain is sure, it is also temporary; and that although life is full, it is also fleeting. His death gives us life and His life gives us hope.
And His blood, the blood that was left on the cross, gives us the greatest gift of all. Redemption from sin and the promise of eternal life.
Eternal life. Where tear stained pillows don't exist and there are no brown bags to breath into. Where addictions, depression, and panic attacks can't live and where anger, frustration, evil, and crime don't prevail.
There is definitely power in the blood that was left at the cross.
Thanks for the reminder, little buddy...
