He is her last resort. She has been hemorrhaging more than half her adult life. What were considered to be her most productive years . . . her childbearing years . . . her very reason for existing . . . has slowly bled out of her, leaving her listless . . . in constant pain . . . always afraid.
For twelve years, she has gone without basic human contact. There is no one to hug her. There is no one willing to even touch her hand. For twelve years she has been an outcast in her own home town. . . in her own home. Unclean. Untouchable.
And for twelve years, everything she owns . . . every penny she can get her hands on . . . has just as slowly and surely been bled out of her - first by the doctors . . . and when the doctors couldn't cure her, then she turned to quacks and charlatans . . . who left her no better off than before . . . just a little poorer for the acquaintance, each time.
But this man . . . this man she has heard of. This man has worked miracles. He has fed thousands when all he had to feed them with was just enough food for one family. He has cured the lame and healed the blind. But the stories that truly bring her hope . . . the stories that catch her imagination and make her believe that he can make a difference in her life . . . the stories that have led her to this moment . . . were the stories of this man healing lepers. He has already touched the unclean. Surely . . . surely if he can heal so dread a disease as leprosy . . . then surely he can heal her, too.
She has heard, too, of how the people rose up, wanting to crown him king . . .all because of these very miracles he has performed. She has heard of how he jumped into a boat and left the crowds behind . . . denying them their king . . .going into a far country. And she has waited for him to return.
Because he is her last resort. She has no where else to turn. There are no more new treatments to try. Without the hope of Jesus, there is no hope left for her. But she knew . . . somehow she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that one small touch was all she needed. Just to brush the edge of his cloak would make her clean. That's all she wanted . . . that's all she needed. It was just a matter of finding a way to get close enough to him to do manage it . . . of finding a way to steal her miracle without drawing any more attention to herself.
Then one day . . . finally . . . she hears the word she has been waiting for. He has come back! She runs toward the sea, heedless of the crowds who know she is unclean - who could drive her physically away at any moment . . . humiliating her yet again. She is tired of waiting now. There will be no better time.
Before she can get close to him, she hears Jairus tell him about his daughter . . . a daughter who was, she knows, born the same year she began bleeding . . . a daughter who is dying, far too young. She expects the teacher to turn away from the man. After all, what good use is a girl child in this world? Girls are without worth, only born just to cook and sew and bear more children. But instead, he follows Jairus away from the boats . . . follows him into town. And she hurries behind them, her hands clenched into fists . . . her breath burning in a throat that is clamped almost closed with fear.
There will be no better time . . . this is the only chance she will get . . . and slowly, craftily . . . she edges forward, pushing sharply when she has to, through the crowd . . . closer and closer until she is almost close enough. She can see his back just there and she stretches her arm between the people just in front of her, hoping against hope, straining to feel a brush of cloth across her fingertips.
One man feels the pressure against his side and turns to see who is pushing against him. He pulls away in disgust when he sees this woman who it is. He jerks away sharply from her touch. That . . . and the push of the crowd behind her . . . is all it takes and she stumbles forward just enough to lightly brush her fingertips across a fold of Jesus' cloak.
And just like that . . . without fanfare . . . without nasty medicines or shouted exhortations . . . without all the fuss and folderol she has endured for the past twelve years and that she has, somehow, come to expect . . . her body ceases to bleed. She is healed. And she can tell the difference already.
Even as the lightening bolt of wholeness flashes through her, the rabbi stops dead in his tracks and slowly, slowly turns back towards her to scan the crowd. "Who touched me?" he asks. "Who touched me?" She never meant for him to know. She never meant for him to realize what she had done . . . to notice that she had touched him . . . that she had made him ritually unclean even as he healed her.
But she also knows that all she can do now is confess her sin. And it was a sin. She takes one step forward, then a second, the crowd parting around her . . . and she falls to her knees before him, not brave enough to look him full in the face. She tells him the whole story - every sorry word of it . . . and she waits for the blow . . . for the denunciation that will surely come . . . that amazingly enough does not come.
Instead he leans down to her . . . places his hand on her head gently and says loud enough for all to hear, "Daughter, your faith has made you well." She looks up then, the first time she clearly sees his face and it takes her breath away. There is no anger. There is no harshness. There is no disgust. There is instead something shining through his eyes that lifts her to her feet without her even being aware of moving.
He smiles at her, turns to answer with the men with him, but she's not listening anymore. She stands there, frozen in place as he walks away . . . shaking . . . battling tears that she refuses to shed in front of the people of her town . . . tears that well from the bottom of her soul.
He was her last resort. And he has changed her life in ways she never dreamed of.
(Comments to Mary tonymary@bellsouth.net)
Ellzey UMC, Otter Creek, Florida