Those who said they would help have only hurt me more. The blood won’t stop coming & all these wounds refuse to be bound. But I heard a rumor yesterday— it caused my heart to leap inside my frail & aching chest. They say: a man— a prophet— a healer— has come to Israel again. In the crowd I hide my face behind my shawl. I hope no one recognizes me— I don’t belong here. All who touch me are unclean & in this crowd I could pollute dozens—yet do I really seek to touch him? Not him I say to myself just his hem— if I can just touch the hem of his robe I know I will be healed— After all this time walking alone perhaps I could be a mother— a friend— a daughter— again. When my fingers graze fabric I feel the Power working. My body feels more whole than it has in twelve long years, but with the joy comes like a lightning flash both awe & terror. What have I done? But before I can slip away anonymous & unnamed his eyes turn toward me. His gaze is searching & he’s asking; “Who touched me?” And I, shaking in a body only moments made whole, confess it all before him. I thought he would chastise me for making him unclean— instead I feel his hand beneath my chin, lifting my eyes to his gaze. He looks at me like he knows me from the top of my head, to the soles of my feet. He calls me daughter & says my faith has made me well. If only everyone could be seen like this— his loving gaze made well parts of me even miracles couldn’t heal.
Photo c/o Luca Lawrence on Unsplash