This past Monday, I gave blood.  This was a big deal for me as I haven’t been able to give blood since I was twenty-one years old.  It’s not that I haven’t wanted to donate all these years.  Until this past year, the rules of the American Red Cross stipulated that if one traveled or lived in England, Ireland or France for three months or more between the years of 1980 and 2001, one could not donate blood.  (There was a problem with mad cow disease in those countries during those years, and the United States Food and Drug Administration, in an abundance of caution, wanted to make sure that the disease didn’t get a foothold in this country due to a compromised blood bank.) I had lived in England for a year in 1984-1985, and therefore, for the last forty years, I have been ineligible to give blood.  The Red Cross, however, removed that restriction last year. The Blood Drive was at St. John’s. There was an available time slot in the afternoon. I signed up to donate. Hooray!  

However… I hate needles. Always have. They freak me out. 

After being checked in by Dick Halbert and Andrew McClaren, parishioners who had volunteered to help with the blood drive, a very nice and competent Red Cross worker named Macreeda registered me. She then led me to the high cot that would serve as the site of my blood sacrifice and hooked me up to the bloodletting apparatus. I looked away.

After a few minutes, Macreeda came back. I was sitting up and doing just fine as my blood flowed into a clear plasticized PVC bag.  It was time for Macreeda to take a much deserved break.  She made sure I was okay, and then said these words, “I need to take a break now, but my colleague will take care of you and see you through to the end.  His name is [wait for it] Jesús.”

Jesús came to my side a couple minutes later and asked how I was doing. I told him that I was fine even though I was beginning to feel not-so-fine. We made chit-chat for another minute or so, and then Jesús, after announcing that I had filled my bag, pulled the needle out. It was then that my head began to swim, and I felt as I had a couple of years ago when I had fainted at a picnic table on a parish camping trip. I made the quick decision to actually be honest with Jesús and tell him the truth.  He quickly steadied my body, lowered my head, raised my knees, put his hand on my shoulder, and assured me that he wouldn’t leave my side.  After about five minutes and after quickly downing the small bottle of apple juice that Jesús gave me, I felt much better, and Jesús went to another cot to help another donor. Macreeda was right: Jesús saw me through to the end, even directing me to the recovery area where I partook of the free Girl Scout cookies. 

Now, I know what you’re thinking.  Sure, it was just a coincidence that this priest-who-hates-needles-and-really-needed-help-but-usually-doesn’t-like-to-ask-for-help was assisted by a Red Cross worker by the name of Jesús.  But still, it got me thinking.

I wonder what it would feel like to be utterly honest with Jesus about what we are going through.  I wonder what our lives might be like if we really placed them in the loving hands of the Lord of Love and Life. I wonder what it would look like to place ourselves in an utterly vulnerable, defenseless posture before Jesus. And I wonder what each of our days would be like if, moment by moment, we laid them before the One who promises to see us through to the end. 

For a few minutes on Monday, I felt like I did.  I felt that I had encountered Jesus in the loving care of a Red Cross worker by the name of Jesús. Jesús saw me through to the end.  And so will Jesus.

~Father Art