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.