Monday, November 21, 2016

From Behind

The story of the woman in Luke 8: 42-48 has always captured my attention.  Many times I have imagined her touching Jesus, imagined her hand reaching out and touching the hem of His clothes; imagined her slipping through the crowd that jostled around Him; imagined her stretching her arm out as far as she could, hoping it was far enough.

I've imagined her hopelessness with the medical situation she was in.  As a woman I could imagine that very well.  I imagined her hoping that each time she was treated by a doctor that it would work this time.  I imagined the 12 long years she endured this "issue of blood" and the uncleanness she was forced to live with.  I imagined her counting out her coins and putting them into the hand of the doctor, a payment that was futile. I imagined the bloody rags she changed often and the tears that probably rolled down her cheeks.

I imagined her letting go of hope.

I imagined her hearing about Jesus, maybe just maybe.....

I imagined the day He came to her town; I imagine her cleaning herself up and walking out of her home, dare she do it since she was unclean.  I imagined her slipping into the crowd.  I imagined her hearing Him speak, He's going to heal Jairus' daughter;  I imagined she knew Jairus; Jairus wouldn't ask Jesus to come heal his daughter if Jesus couldn't, would he?  I imagined faith flaring in her heart.

I imagined her desperation as she weaved between humanity that crowed around Jesus.  I imagined her being shoved, pushed aside, each shove feeding her determination to reach Him.

I imagined her coming from behind, the tips of her fingers touching Him and the feeling of the issue of blood drying up.  I imagined her hearing Jesus say "who touched Me".  I imagined her fear as everyone denied it, I imagined her guilt. I imagined Jesus' eyes connecting with hers as He said " I felt power go out of Me".  I imagined she knew because she felt that power charge through her.

I imagined her coming forward, afraid, He is a clean man, a holy man and she had touched Him. I imagined her falling down, her bowed head; I imagined her confession, a silent plea for mercy.  I imagined hearing Jesus' words to her "Daughter, be of good cheer, your faith has made you well.  Go in peace".

I imagined her getting to her feet, cherishing the thought He called her Daughter.  I imagined her joy at being healed, changed, free, at peace.

Then, I imagine my hand reaching out to touch Him.

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