Life is in the Blood

My stomach began to feel slightly weak at the sight of the operating table where Luja lay. I could not see her face, only her body resting in a pool of her own blood. There was so much.

When she came to the hospital earlier that day, she was admitted to the OB ward and instructed to undress and lie on the table. Her skirt was saturated with dark blood, and it trickled down her legs. She continued to bleed for the next several hours until she was called into the operating room for an emergency C-section.

Now here she was, losing even more blood.

As the minutes passed slowly, I could hold it in no longer. I wouldn’t normally do this, but I interrupted the surgeon. “Will she need blood?”

Through his mask, I heard a muffled, “Yes.” He looked at me. “You go find blood.”

I rushed out of the operating room and ran to the lab, feeling as if time was ticking underneath my watch. Not knowing her blood type, a lab worker walked with me to the operating room to get a sample of her blood. Her unhurried steps frustrated me, and I wanted to grab her hand and pull her, saying, “Have you seen how much blood she has lost? Hurry up!”

Back in the lab, her blood type was determined to be O+. “We only have A and B in the blood bank,” the lab worker said to me. Without hesitating, I stuck out my finger. “Test me.”

My heart beat faster and faster as I waited for my blood to agglutinate in the test kit.

“She is very lucky." The nurse paused as I tried to interpret what she meant. "You are O+.”

I have never been eligible to give blood in the United States because I go out of the country so frequently. Here in Africa, there is an emergency down the hall, so no questions are even asked.  Luja needs blood, so I volunteer my veins. As soon as the bag is full, I put my shoes back on and walk down to the OB ward, where they are transferring Luja from a stretcher onto a bed. I hang my own blood and watch it drip into her veins.

“It is still warm,” the nurse tells me as he looks at the bag of blood. “Asante sana,” he says slowly with a respectful nod. It means “thank you very much”, and I knew he meant it.

Without a doubt, if Luja had not come to the hospital to give birth, she would have died. She would have bled to death in her own home. And I don’t really know,  but if I had not been there to give my blood, she may have bled to death right there in the hospital.

My blood gave Luja a shot at life again. My blood runs through her veins. A part of me is within her. 

Life is in the blood.

I hear God say it in the Old Testament, “Life is in the blood.” I, too, live because of the sharing of blood – even the spilling of blood. I was left to die, but my Savior shed His blood on the cross to bring me life. To bring us life.  His blood gives us a chance at life again. When we let His blood run through our veins,  a part of Him is within us. Our very lives are saved by His blood.

I watched my blood drip, drip, drip, as it replaced what was once lost. I saw Jesus' blood drip, drip, drip, as it ran down the wooden cross. I listened to Luja’s heart, and then I felt my own heart beating in my chest. “There is life in the blood, Luja,” my heart whispers. Nothing but the blood of Jesus.