Everyone at the shop was appalled that this was my first time piercing my ears at the glorious age of twenty-something. And I was also appalled at the sight of my gleaming red blood lying opposite me on little cotton buds. Which (finally) brings me to the main point of this post tonight.
I don't get squeamish when I see blood on tv, and not when I read about it either. But seeing your own blood - now that's a different story. When you are confronted with that vision, it strikes you that you aren't immortal; you can be pricked; you can bleed.
I might be a little morbid, but this got me thinking about mortality. A difficult and terrifying concept. And something each of us has to confront one day.
And today I stand amazed at how one man - and no mere man - did more than we could ever ask for, ridding us of our painful penalty. He bled when his back was ripped apart; His blood streamed down his face as the crown of thorns was forced down upon His head; His hands and feet glistened with wet pools of thick ruby red liquid.
I wonder how this man could've done it. How He bore with the pain. How He allowed His life, His blood, to drain from him.
And this is the image of Jesus I hold in my heart and mind tonight. An impossibly great sacrifice, and a debt that can never be fully repaid.
A divine exchange indeed.