On an abandoned path, hidden from prying eyes, I walked home from the market alone.. No one is ever on this road, so I walk with my eyes straight ahead rather than fixed to the ground. For a moment, my shoulders relax.
For years, what ails me has determined my worth. It writes the rules for my life. It sets the schedule for my days. It chooses the roads that I walk down, the places that I visit, my conversations, all are dictated by my affliction.
To the world, I am filthy. This torment that was once so easy to hide now bleeds out, requiring to be noticed. I am not to be touched or spoken to. They fear that what plagues my life will seep into theirs, making them filthy too. I am out of control. I am unworthy. I am diseased. I am to be discarded. I am lonely. I am beginning to believe that the anguish that holds me captive will be my undertaker. I believe I will die, dirty and alone.
A roar of voices comes from close by and I lunge for cover behind a tree before anyone notices me. Peeking around the bark I catch a glimpse of the commotion. A large group surrounds an ordinary man. Who is that man? I stretch my neck and see someone knelt in front of him, begging. “Lay your hand on her and she will live,” he says. She will live? That is absurd. Only God raises people from the dead.
My heart thunders while my breath dips into my throat. The bundle I carry hits the ground. The color drains from my face. My thoughts are racing. The Messiah? The one who everyone is talking about? Could this ordinary man be the One? I’ve heard whispers of him healing the lepers and the blind but…
My feet move faster than I have ever run in my entire life. They are carrying me so quickly that my brain doesn’t have time to catch up. If I bring my sludge and shame into that crowd, everyone will taunt me, cast me away. If I touch a man with my disgusting hands, I will surely be stoned to death. However, anything seems more appealing than this abyss of isolation…
My thoughts barrel through my head. He will be so reviled by me that he will shrink his hands back in disgust. Who am I to have the eye of the Messiah? What if he isn’t the Messiah at all? There are far cleaner people for him to lay his hands on. But if I could just run fast enough, if I could just slip through the crowd, if I could just touch the hem of his robe…
My lungs burn. Dust flies into my eyes and nostrils as my chest hits the ground at the feet of a man named Jesus. I can barely make out which garment is his but I grab, blindly, and my fingers rest on the fringe of a tattered, worn robe. I roll the threads between my thumb and index finger. Time stops. I am paralyzed in the dirt.
Jesus, the Messiah, freezes in his steps. My head is pounding. My body is quaking. The people around us are silent. I am going to be killed.
I snap my hand back just as he turns, bending to look into my face. My mouth is locked open as I attempt to explain myself. Words disappear as I shrink into my body. There are nothing gasps of air that escape my mouth. I brace for the impact of a hand drawn back. I brace for one thousand stones. Jesus reaches out his hand, a smile spreads across his face as his gaze meets mine, “ Daughter…”