Back after the Christmas break, the Mothers and Toddlers group were making calendars. Granddaughter hastily and clumsily donned a plastic apron, scrambled onto the dauntingly high adult chair and surveyed the scene on the table. She gleamed over to me with a look that said “Really Grandma? Accessible plates of coloured paint? Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
There was a small blink of time. The blink that says “Too bad Grandma – this is on you!” And both hands simultaneously spluttered palms down into the red paint. Now the idea, of course, was to print pristinely clear hand prints onto the calendar blank that could be displayed with pride in parental kitchens identifying their offspring as creator of this magnificent and original work of art.
Well, that didn’t happen. The lure of the squelch and dribble of paint squeezing through her fingers was too tempting to spend any time on truly artistic endeavour. Red paint was massaged onto the card in swirls and whirls until no identifiable hand print was recognisable. As I tried to catch and apprehend her hands in order to guide and manage her work, she jerked them away with a “No Grandma!” showering me with red droplets in the process.
Eventually she was persuaded to wash her hands and prepare for snack but not without a degree of fine negotiation worthy of superpower diplomacy.
In the evening, before I could go out, a complete change of clothes was required, as I was covered in red splatters. The dates on the calendar may be unreadable but the complete covering of red reminded me of the work of Jesus on the cross. The blood from his body completely obliterating my sins, so that I could be free. “Washed in the blood of the Lamb.”