The Woman Who Touched the Hem

Twelve years.

She had spent all her money on doctors.

Had grown worse.

She had heard about Jesus.

She came up behind him in the crowd.

She told herself: If I touch even his garments, I will be made well.

She touched the fringe of his garment.

Immediately the flow of blood dried up.

She felt in her body that she was healed of her disease.

And immediately Jesus, perceiving in himself that power had gone out from him, turned around in the crowd.

He said: Who touched my garments?

His disciples said: You see the crowd pressing around you and yet you say who touched me?

He looked around to see who had done it.

She knew what had happened to her.

She came in fear and trembling.

She fell down before him.

She told him the whole truth.

The whole truth.

Standing in the crowd. Telling him twelve years of suffering and shame and desperation.

He said: Daughter.

Daughter.

Of all the words. That one.

Your faith has made you well.

Go in peace.

Be healed of your disease.

She had only wanted to touch and disappear.

He stopped everything to find her.

Not to expose her. Not to shame her for touching him in her ritual uncleanness.

To name her.

To call her daughter.

To say it out loud so she would know: this is not an accident.

This is not something that happened in the crowd that nobody saw.

I saw it.

I felt it.

You are known.

You are well.

Go in peace.

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