wOMAN WITH THE ISSUE OF BLOOD
Among the multitudes on that hot fateful day, was me. The unclean. For twelve years, I suffered not only physical pain but also the indignities that come with being a bleeder. Doctor after doctor could not cure me of my hemorrhage. And so I bled. And as you know, to lose blood is to lose life. And I…was slowly dying.
I was only a remnant of my former self. Widowed and near poverty for all of the money I’d given doctors. For all the money I spent on those with little faith. I no longer had friends. No one to comfort me…no shoulder to cry on…no laughter to brighten my day. I could no longer stand proud.
In twelve years, I had aged fifty. I resembled a leaning, dying tree. My skin, dry and wrinkled as bark. My limbs – reaching in a futile attempt to capture youth. My head, prematurely bowed and my hands, gruesomely curled. I moved in pain. Lived in pain. I epitomized pain.
But my mind was clear. My heart still pure. And my spirit was strong. But no one saw this. The ugliness of my physical shell seemed to prevent others from seeing my joy. You see, I may not have had friends or a husband, or even family, but I had God. He alone was my comfort.
I knew God would deliver me. I knew He would one day make me clean again, so I could enter temple and pray. That had been my most difficult struggle. With my disease, I was not allowed into the house of God.
And so, on that day among the multitudes was me. I had heard of Jesus. The miracles he performed. And upon laying eyes on Him, I knew He was God’s vessel. I knew I was not permitted to touch Him, but I also believed, if I could get close enough, I would be cured.
And so, I squeezed and pulled and shoved my way through the crowd. Through the multitude.
“Jesus..Jesus. I believe.” (beat) “If I can just get close enough, I know I’ll be cured.”
I could see Him. I saw Glory in His face and my faith grew even stronger. Surely, if there was healing in His body…”If I could but touch his clothes, I will be made well.”
It became easier to move through the crowd, it was as if God was parting them – making a way for me. I reached the edge of the crowd and there He was. “Jesus.” All I could do was stretch. Stretch my arms to Him. “Jesus. If I could but touch His clothes.” I stretched. And managed to open my gnarled hands. With my fingertips, I grazed His robe.
In an instant, I was changed. I could feel the power of God. “Jesus.” Moving. Touching. Healing my body. The bleeding ceased and I stood – transformed.
He turned to me, sensing He had been touched. Realizing someone had stolen a miracle. I fell to my knees, afraid, humbled, and confessed: “It was me Jesus. For years I’ve suffered and I just wanted to be healed. To be cleansed. To God be the glory!”
“Daughter,” he said, in a calm, strong voice. “Your faith has made you well. Go in peace…be healed of your disease.”
Someone helped me. Someone touched me and lifted me to my feet, so that I could stand face to face with Jesus. He looked at me with love, and then turned to continue his journey. And there I stood. Healed. Physically and spiritually renewed. I wanted to sing praises. I wanted to thank God. But I couldn’t sing…so I danced. Danced praises of “Thank You’s and Hallelujah’s” with my once, crippled body.