Touched

Twelve years.

Twelve years a slave.

Twelve years a prisoner to this disease, her ever unwanted companion of agony, which sometimes forced her to her knees. It would always do what it pleased, which never included her release from this chain of embarrassment and pain. The priests told her she had no one to blame but herself, she should feel shame for whatever sin it was that now hid her under this cloak of suffering.

Money. Oh the money she had spent. To doctors and "healers" and sacrifices it went. The priests and healers cried, "Repent!" though from what she did not know. All she could do was lament her empty purse and empty soul while she still sat bent, failing in her attempt to win a never-ending duel with pain.

She felt hopeless . . . helpless . . . hapless . . . just less. Less than what she had been, less than what she could be, less than any child, man, or woman she could see. Or couldn't see. How had she been dealt this lot? It was as if an author had sat down and thought to write her life story and into the plot pen an unsolvable problem, not realizing the ripple that would cause a hurricane in his character's life.

One day however, she saw hope. It had dark hair and gentle eyes and they called it Jesus Christ. She had heard statements about him, she knew they weren't lies. If she could just get to him  . . . but he might despise her and her blood and pain so much he wouldn't recognize her faith, tiny but alive.

The crowd surged around her, like the ocean waves onto the sand, relentless, making it hard to stand. If him she could just touch with her hand, no effort would that demand. She tried to move as he walked by, she was pushed and shoved, made to fall by this human tide. But falling at the feet of Jesus made it easier to get to Him.

It was while she was down low that she reached Him. She touched his clothes. While on her knees she felt a flow of . . . something. A flow of warmth, like the sunlight shining bright from her insides. A flow of power, like a thousand boulders falling down a mountainside. A flow of peace, like a river that on its path slowly glides. Pain, vanished. The battle, finished.

Who touched me?

She sank back into the surge of people when she heard Him say this. A moment ago all was bliss, but now she feared what might come, the result of her actions, the sum. Again she heard it.
He knew. She knew he knew. And he knew she knew he knew. So instead of fleeing like a pursued gazelle, she moved forward like a cowering beaten dog and fell, trembling, at his feet. It was I, she whispered, I touched you. Please, forgive me, Lord, but I have had this pain and I just thought that if  . . . she trailed off, thinking her speech in vain.

Daughter, be comforted. Your faith has made you whole. Go in peace. Gentle words from a gentle healer and a gentle Lord.

Faith took her pain. Faith made her well. Faith, as tiny as a mustard seed. He said that's all we need. Faith.