It was one of those quiet and sleepy Sunday mornings. It was cold outside and it was cold in my room and the down comforter on my bed lulled me to a deeper sleep than usual. I was sleeping so deeply and dreaming peacefully when the alarm went off and tore me awake.

It was one of those quiet and sleepy Sunday mornings. It was cold outside and it was cold in my room and the down comforter on my bed that the cat laid on had lulled him into a deeper sleep than usual. He was sleeping so deeply and, I presume, dreaming peacefully when the alarm went off and tore him awake.

Now the difference was that I grumbled and groused a little about the alarm scaring me as it went off, but the cat woke up on red alert. I am not entirely sure he knew where he was or what the noise meant, and I am sure he did not know who I was because, as I walked across the floor, he bit me.
The cat has nipped me before, but this was the first time in seven years that he flat out bit me. I think he realized what he had done right away, he ran off and hid for a while and I reminded myself that he has a brain the size of a walnut and the alarm had scared him, but that did nothing to take away the sting in my leg; or the shock when I realized I was bleeding.

After unlocking the church for the morning Masses, I took some extra time to wash my leg with lots of soap and warm water. It didn’t make much of a difference, a few days later I noticed my leg was bright red and swollen. That darn cat had given me an infection.

I have always prided myself on my body’s amazing ability to heal itself. I am not entirely sure if I do not deal with medical things because I have convinced myself of this amazing ability, or because I am lazy or because I just don’t want to know; regardless, I decided to let time heal my wound.
Of course, it didn’t. The infection got worse and finally I showed some people and they said I needed to do something about it before I got blood poisoning, whatever that is. I spoke with the ladies cleaning the rectory and one of them told me that hot water would pull the poison right out. Sounded good to me, so I went into the living room and waited for her to warm the water.

She came into the living room with a bucket and a rag and gingerly, oh so gingerly, lifted the very tip of the corner of the rag with her finger and said, “this is hot,” and put it on my leg.
She assured me my screaming was part of the healing process.

So, although it did feel good on my leg after a while, now I had an infection and a burn. I was asked all the time whether my infection had grown “fingers,” because that meant blood poisoning, but it was hard to tell because the hot rag had turned my leg red.

The time had come for my mom’s tried and true medical technique for infections. Before going to bed, I soaked a piece of bread in milk and set it on the wound, and then I wrapped my leg before going to bed. As usual, it worked its magic and drew the poison out and the healing began. Although I still have a bit of a bump and will carry a scar, the leg is on the mend nicely.

Now that some time has passed and I only have a scar to show for my efforts, I can think back about the experience and all the little folk remedies and advise I was given. I suppose most families, and most parents, have these little bits of wisdom passed on through the generations. You try and try until something works and then you teach your kids. Most of this is born of a simple fact, no matter how amazing the human body is, there are some times when it cannot heal itself.

So now I have this little scar on my leg to serve as my Lenten and Easter reminder. I can so easily forget that there are times when, regardless of my intention or confidence, that I cannot heal myself. The scar reminds me that there are wounds and pains; there are sins and poisons in me that I cannot take care of personally. I have to go to another.

These days are the gift we are given to recognize our need for a healing we cannot give ourselves, to recognize where our wounds are, where the poison eats away at us, and to go to the One whose grace and love can bring us healing and peace. We are told that “by his stripes, we are healed,” but that really doesn’t mean much until we know we need to be healed.

These days are given to us so we might recognize these wounds, feel this poison and bring it to the cross. There, the love and the touch of Christ bring us what we need. No matter how deep, no matter how long, no matter how infected, we do not have to wait; some wounds will not be healed by time alone.

These days are given to us. Don’t be afraid, be healed; it is there for the asking.
Oh, and by the way, the cat and I have made up nicely, thank you.