Remember those thick, crusty scabs you would get as a kid?
My skin-the-knee-years were in the early 70s, and I would often return from a wobbly
bike ride with my knee scraped and bloody.
Tears streaming down my face, I would park my purple, banana
seat bike – with its white flower-covered plastic basket, in the driveway and
burst into our ranch-style suburban house in search of my mom. She would get the
“cure-all” basket out of our bathroom, wipe the dirt off of my injured knee,
and apply Merthiolate (the pinkish liquid applied with a dropper) to my cut,
blowing on it to soothe the sting.
But the days afterward weren’t pretty either. The scrape
would scab over. And it was hard to resist picking at its itchy ugliness. Blood,
I learned, was not my friend.
Not only did I fear blood, I was terrified of any sort of injury.
A safety first child, I dreaded gym class and even opted out of outings to the toboggan
hill or roller skating rink. Blood and fear were forever linked in my mind. Self-protection
became my mantra.
For me, safety was found at home and at church. First
Baptist of South Holland was a small, sturdy, Dutch congregation with
salt-of-the-earth suburban families. We liked to camp and potluck (both
relatively safe and injury-free activities). And we really, really liked to
sing.
My dad was the piano player in our small congregation, and
he played that instrument with gusto. Visitors would remark that my dad was the
Jerry Lee Lewis of Baptists, and they were right. In fact, if you looked
beneath the piano, you could see an indent in the beige linoleum right where he
would tap his foot in time to the music.
Once a month, on Sunday night (yes, we went to two services)
we had choose-your-own-hymn night. My best friend’s dad, Mr. Aarup, would lead
singing. And I was always ready to request one of my favorites: “There is Power
in the Blood.”
Written in 1899, by Lewis E. Jones (who happens to be a very
early Moody Bible Institute grad!), the song had an upbeat tempo for its somber
lyrics:
“There is pow’r, pow’r, wonder-working pow’r,
In the blood of the Lamb.
There is pow’r, pow’r, wonder-working pow’r,
In the precious blood of the Lamb.”
Now, I have to wonder why a 10-year-old girl – especially one
so fearful of injury - was deeply in love with this particular turn-of-the-century
hymn. The music was rollicking, but the words were somber. I was singing about
blood, after all. The thing I feared the most.
Nevertheless, I would sing the chorus with gusto, an odd
juxtaposition of my childish enthusiasm and the painful, impactful reality of
Christ’s sacrifice. Jesus bled. He hurt. He suffered. His red, thick, sticky
blood was no different from the stuff that scabbed over on my knobby knee.
But Jesus’ blood did much more. His blood paid my debt and
guaranteed my future. Christ’s blood freed me from doubt and guilt and fear.
His blood was indeed filled with “wonder-working pow’r.”
No wonder I felt such freedom when I sang those words. His
power became mine as well. This kind of blood was not the type I feared. It was
rich and healing and life-changing!
“Would you be free from the burden of sin?
There’s pow’r in the blood, pow’r in the blood;
Would you o’er evil a victory win?
There’s wonderful pow’r in the blood.”
That hymn still speaks to me today, some 40 years later. I
may still feel like that wobbly 10-year-old girl with bloody knees, but I cling
to the powerful truth that my sins are covered by “the precious blood of the
Lamb.”
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