From the time Jesus appeared to me in the dark of 1999, sometimes, like a tiny breeze weaving its way through a room, the memory of the vision would come back, and with it, the mental imprint of Our Lady wiping the Wounds of Her Son. Yet, as one year folded into the next, marked by events both happy and sorrowful, I never went beyond the memory of the visions and the release accorded to me. I was too preoccupied with my remaining, ever increasing battles to really search for the meaning to Wipe My Blood.
In November 2010, as the aging year began to wind down, I sensed an interior longing to pray the Rosary using only the Sorrowful Mysteries. The grief held in for so long, needed an outlet. Not just any release, but a release into Heaven’s comfort. I was inexplicably drawn to pray the Sorrowful Mysteries but didn’t understand why.
Then, Mother Teresa’s Come Be My Light came into my life, and I read and read, and the light began to shy in.
One day, deep in the night hours, I sensed an awareness leaning against my soul. I put the book down and stared at the Divine Mercy picture on my wall and waited. Then, it came. An unseen finger traced the words, Wipe My Blood, on my soul again, and life was breathed into them. The words from so long ago began to throb in my soul, like a caged bird seeking release in understanding.
How, Lord? How do I wipe Thy Blood?
In response, I again felt the pressure of the words, Wipe My Blood. The images from Mother Teresa’s book swam before me. I saw the old saint and the love she took into the slums. Her struggles. Her faith. Then, I knew. Wipe My Blood was the bell chime of absolute freedom, telling me it was time to flee the confines of my childhood cage, every one of it, and to go out and love like I have never before. It was a call of Love, to love.
In a motion of light, month after month, year after year, from that day on, an unseen angel lifted the veil to places where I was to answer the call, Wipe My Blood.
I saw the children I had birthed after years of barrenness. I saw the tired, dogged determination to do what was best for them. I saw all too clearly the frustrations, the anger when things didn’t go my way. The hate for myself when I couldn’t enjoy my own wee ones. Wipe My Blood. God wanted me to love and enjoy my children. To feel the tickle of bubbles from a baby’s trumpet-lips. To enjoy the buttons that wouldn’t button over fat tummies. To lean into the paws that batted my face, telling me baby didn’t want to sleep but play. Love them, Jesus said. Love them differently from before.
Cook for the family, He continued. Cook the way you want. So, I began to cook differently. Cooked away from the shadows of remembered recriminations. Simple things. Simple cakes. Some flat, some with so many holes I wondered how they stayed together.The patter of feet into the kitchen. Happy squeals over a favourite dish coming, eager peeking into the oven. Cook for the family. Wipe My Blood.
The call sounded again.
I sought to make my husband and children happy. I sang to them. Sang funny songs with made up lyrics. Blessed with a voice like an old fishing trawler, I am no Whitney Houston, but sang I did because it produced horrified giggles, tickled funnies. It was no longer about waiting to be happy before I made others happy. It was about stepping outside of my circle of grey, and taking the Light I didn’t feel, to where it was needed. And when my doggy-loving child begged me to sing her Patti Page’s How Much is That Doggy In The Window as I brushed her teeth, I saw that creaking-door voice or not, He wanted me to make my baby happy, and to find happiness in that, because it meant wiping His Blood.
And from my home, the angel led me further out. He took me to those who chose to suffer away from the gaze of others. To hold and to pray for them as they weathered the storm. To stay by their side because others had long left.
One day, the angel had me follow him to an old path, rutted in weeds and wildflowers. I was led to write again, after long forgotten years. To find release and freedom. To ponder mysteries by writing. To read my thoughts and learn who I truly was. And then, slowly, to write to heal others. Most of my adult life, I had received letters from home. Letters that should never have been written because they left me with a blackness long after they had been crushed and thrown away. To wipe my Lord’s Blood, He wanted me to write peace, to bring others the gold of joy and giggles, because the best way to purge the past was not to paper over, or to bury it, but to set it on a standard, like Moses did with the bronze snakes in the desert, and to use it to heal others.
As I obeyed the call, I began to heal. And slowly, I began to see glimpses of Heaven.
But Wiping My Blood was not as much about personal healing as it was about ministering to wounded-ness. There are far too many beaten and left for dead, many who mourn in the shadows.
There are far too many tears than there are hands to wipe them away, and to tilt lips in an upwards curve of a smile. The sorrows of this earth are many, and they cannot wait till I am healed completely before they are attended to.
My Lord calls, and with no delay or hesitation, His summons must be answered.