For twelve years I have been visiting doctors, healers, anyone who thought they could help. There isn’t a treatment I haven’t tried. I’ve changed my diet. I’ve tried herbal remedies. Nothing has worked.
For twelve years I have been bleeding.
You know how you feel when you’re on the worst day of your period? Depleted, cramping, cranky, no energy, angry at Eve, no appetite, or eating everything in sight? I’ve felt that way for the past twelve years with no reprieve.
Women in menopause – you’ve got nothing on me. Not to minimize anyone else’s pain, but I am at a loss and the isolation and rejection are worst of all.
You see, I’m a Jew. And blood is an unclean thing. For the first few months, I didn’t go anywhere because I would make others unclean. When I finally gathered the courage and energy to get out of the house, it almost made things worse.
I was forced to yell “unclean,” wherever I went so that no one accidentally touched me and became unclean as well. Literally like hanging your dirty laundry out for all to see.
And a very lonely existence. No physical contact for twelve years – not a hug, a gentle touch, or warm embrace. I feel unloved, forgotten, and broken.
It may be uncomfortable to talk about, but the events of this past week have inspired me to shout from the mountain tops, and it’s nothing about the word, “unclean.”
A Teacher with great healing power was in town. And while it took everything in me to find hope for healing, I had heard so many wonderful things about this man of God that I cried out to God and ventured to take a risk one more time.
Crowds surrounded the Teacher and pressed up against him so closely that I knew there was no way I could get close to him. His disciples stayed nearby and would’ve risked their own uncleanliness before I approached the Teacher.
But I had no choice. My final hope of healing was with that man. If only I could touch the hem of his garment… So, I covered my face and defied the Jewish rules. In a strange combination of terror of discovery and hope of healing, under cover of my cloak, I weaved my way through the crowd.
Finally, I had reached the Teacher and my fingers were able to graze the edge of his garment. Immediately, relief flooded me. Breath returned to my lungs. Life was restored to my body. I was healed!
However, my relief was short-lived and my breath became a frozen gasp as the Teacher spoke out. “Who touched my clothes?”
His disciples tried to convince him that it was the crowd pressing around him, but when he persisted, my greatest fear was realized. Rebuke, rejection, isolation, and a reversal of his healing were imminent. I was sure of it.
Yet this Teacher was like none other. As I trembled at his feet, confessed my actions, and shared my story, his eyes were filled, not with condemnation, but rather with love, acceptance, and sympathy.
My own tears of fear transformed into tears of deep, heart-felt gratitude for the tremendous gift I had been given. Yes, I was grateful for the physical healing of my bleeding. Still more powerful than the physical healing though was the emotional healing. For the first time in twelve years, I was welcomed back into the family. I was brought back into the community. I was redeemed.
“Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.”
Yes, the Teacher, Jesus Christ Messiah, had called me “Daughter.”
For the full story, read Matthew 9, Mark 5, and Luke 8.
P.S. I later learned that it was the shedding of his redeeming blood that made us all clean – He offered everyone the opportunity to be welcomed back into his family. I invite you to also let him call you “Daughter.”