“And he will be found a sure refuge, even to those who make him their last refuge.”

Matthew Henry Commentary Mark 5

My morning starts as they all do- getting up in the pitch-black stumbling around trying to find my jars of water before starting my trek up to the well. I have to get there before dawn and before the other women in the village start stirring and taking their journeys together up to collect water for the day. They would probably be laughing and sharing stories of their families and their days all taking their time and soaking in the time of fellowship. Whereas I’m standing in the time before dawn filled with overwhelming quiet with the only person to talk to would be myself. With my water jugs and my thoughts, I made my way back down the hills and to my home. I left a jar near the door and went back to the kitchen with the other to boil some water for a cup of tea.

As I took the boiled water and mixed in the herbs I went to get changed into what I was going to wear for the rest of the day. Coming back the foul smell of the herbs as they steeped went straight to my head. Already exhausted from my early morning I leaned against the table waiting for the tea to finish. Whether the exhaustion hit because of my morning hike or because of the health issues I’ve fought for so long I just wanted to lay back in bed, but that wouldn’t be an option. I wished I had the energy to do what normal women do during the day. I wish I could be one of those women laughing and making the climb to the well in groups rather than in isolation. However, with my condition, those sorts of options weren’t going to be available.

I looked down at the leather pouch laying next to my tea. This was supposed to be the latest and greatest opportunity for me to finally find a chance to have a normal life. Well, my latest and greatest was coming down to only a few more days of hope for relief. Without a miracle I would have to make my way back to the vultures- those doctors and healers that all push these “miracle cures” that this time these herbs and potions would stop the incessant bleeding, pain, and exhaustion. These promises that I’ve clung to for relief had not only depleted all of my savings but my last reserves of hope.

Clutching the cup of tea I burned my throat trying to drain my morning ritual as quickly as possible to avoid its awful taste. It had been so long since I had a morning where I could just stand outside and smile enjoying the sun and the warm. So long since I could go into the town without a thought or concern about running into anyone that knew me. So long since I had been seen for me and not what was battling inside of me. I longed to be able to run and laugh, to be embraced by someone who loved me. But years of being unclean, years of going from physician to priest to someone that had a magic solution for cleansing and healing my body had taught me one thing- miracles often came at a price. I felt that if the Lord had deemed me worthy of being saved and to be granted a miracle he would have heard my cries that I’ve called out for years.

My issue, this sickness has left me on the outside of life looking in. People didn’t want to get too close to what they didn’t understand. Lack of understanding typically leads to cruelty and isolation whether intentioned or not. At first, my friends and family were supportive. They would pray over me and walk with me from appointment to appointment encouraging me that God would send us a sign and a cure. Sure that this tea, this salve, this potion would be what could bring me back to them. But year after year with no success and no progress that we’ve seen. My support system grew impatient with dealing with the impurity of my condition that would also be affiliated to them. Most pulled away quickly, others I pushed off not fully sure if I was protecting them or myself. I didn’t think I could handle watching someone else walk away from me. I couldn’t blame them for moving on with their lives, for living, because that’s what I dreamed of when I looked out the window watching the world unfold without me.

Thinking of those I lost and mourned even though they lived in another section of the village I didn’t think I could take a plow of another failure. I don’t know if my heart could bear another disappointment and feeling of crushing defeat. I had cried out again and again to God on my knees for understanding and for healing. For forgiving the sin that must have brought about this continual punishment but my pleas appeared to have fallen on deaf ears. Once this tea was done I had no more money, no more chances to seek help. In the absence of hope and the abandonment of help what other choices would I have? Hadn’t I suffered long enough? Hadn’t I endured year after year of internal agony while on the outside appearing to be fine? Wouldn’t it be better, so much simpler, if all this pain just ended? That life ended? Wasn’t this the only thing that I had left to control? It was my life- if you could even call it that-so it would ultimately be my decision. Life or Death. Healing or Peace. Something was going to have to change because I couldn’t keep continuing like this. Sitting in the window contemplating the best way to die- I heard voices shouting from the nearby courtyard.

I tried not to go to places where people gathered publicly as I knew that I wasn’t welcomed but a pull to see what was going on came over me. Grabbing a headscarf and wrapping myself so as to be unnoticed I wandered my way into the growing crowd as they yelled, “Jesus the prophet! Jesus from Nazareth is here!” People were yelling whether to each other or over each other as they pushed and knocked each other out of the way to get to the center of the growing mob. I was jostled in the commotion and found my way a few feet closer. In the midst of the crowd tales of this prophet’s miracles were being retold. This man was a Healer. This man could commune with the Father. I had heard whispers as I leaned out my window of this man, if even a shut-in like myself heard of his greatness there must be something to see. This man was said to be the Son of God. What did this mean? Maybe if I could just be near Him, to hear Him as He taught, to absorb as much as I could my prayers would be worthy of His Father’s concern. Then a thought began to grow- small at first but growing as I made my way inch by inch closer to the center of the throng. What if I touched him? Maybe not him but just the hem of his cloak? What if I actually touched the Son of God? Surely if I thought His presence could bring me peace, His touch could also bring healing.

But no one could know that someone of my status in my situation, both impure and unwelcomed was even going near this prophet let alone within his grasp. If the crowds knew what I was thinking if they knew I was going to dare to try and get near enough for a brush they would surely stone me to death for daring to bring my impurity near this man of God. But there wasn’t anything to lose anymore. If I didn’t try and the tea failed the remainder of my hope for my reason for fighting would be gone and with it my life. With each inch, I gained as they walked through the courtyard I sent up a prayer for courage. Just a few more feet I thought as I knelt to the ground hoping that no one would notice what appeared to be a worthless beggar crawling and looking for scraps. Well, scraps were all I needed. A scrap of power. A scrap of grace. The smallest scrap of hope. A tiny bit of God Himself would bring about the biggest miracle in my life.

Reaching out my arm as I crawled closer to the man as he spoke to his followers around him I took a breath and leaned out stretching with the last of my strength if it wasn’t now it would be never. I felt the brush of fabric and while there was rushing chaos around me I couldn’t see who I touched but somehow I knew. The warmth started from my fingertips and started spreading throughout my whole being. The warm feeling of hope and light, things that I had not felt even before I had been labeled as afflicted. The Man of God stopped and with Him, the crowd lurched to a halt bumping into one another. I was so mesmerized by what I was feeling that I stopped my crawling and sat there amongst the crown. A man not seeing me as I was almost paralyzed transfixed looking at my fingertips tripped over me and fell into a nearby disciple of the prophet. “Who touched me?” the Son of God asked. “I felt power leave my body.” The disciple aggravated with the man who fell into him pushed back at the man and looked exasperated at his master.

His disciples tried to reason with Him as they were all being pushed and shoved as people reached out trying to grab hold of Him now that He stood still. Shaking His head the Son of God persisted that He had to know. My heart fell. They were all going to know. These people were going to see me, broken, impure, and worthless and they were going to find out that I dared to approach the Son of God and defiled Him with her very presence. Bowing my head to what would undoubtedly be my fate I stood up and knelt at His feet. Shaking I removed my headscarf and started my confession while keeping my head down low. I confessed to my impurity and my hope for a cure. I confessed that in my hour of desperation I chose to reach out to God in my last attempt for life. The roar of the crowd’s indignation called that I was unclean and unworthy and that I needed to be cast out. They called for my life as I defiled their Man of God.

During the commotion, the Man of God said nothing as He stared down at me. I finally looked up after a few minutes without his response. I braced for His wrath and His condemnation as I looked up. I saw a look that confused me- as I looked up I saw a look of pain in His eyes and immediately assumed that it was disgust at who was in His presence. But His words made no sense? “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in Peace.”

Daughter? Faith? Healed? None of these words made any sense to me. To be a daughter meant that I belonged somewhere. It meant I had a family- people who would protect and love me. Whereas mine had seemingly left me behind long ago. Then how could I be charged as faithful when this very morning I grumbled about God’s lack of intervention in my life. When I thought about taking this life that He was declaring part of His family. Surely it is only the strong and faithful that can be seen not the faith that barely has breath? Healed? Was that a sick joke or could it be the warmth that now spread throughout my whole body was truly that- healing? Rushing out of the crowd people moved out of my way to avoid being in my presence. I saw their glares and heard their remarks but I needed to get home. I needed to see, I needed to know. Had He spoken truth over me or was I just getting more false promises?

Two weeks had passed and I sat in my window with a cup of tea. This tea had notes of flowers and wonderfully scented herbs. This was for pleasure, not some potion thrown together in desperation to make the bleeding stop. A knock at the door meant it was time for fellowship. Women from the village were coming over with a meal for them to share as they spent time together talking about this man named Jesus. We had planned this spontaneous gathering while we walked back from the well this morning. I couldn’t stop smiling. Not only was my body healed and getting stronger every day but I felt like my soul was finally mending from each blow of disappointment and each broken promise. While this miraculous healing took an instant the healing of my heart and my soul was going to run a more natural course. It was going to take some time to relearn and rebuild what had been destroyed in years of depression and isolation. Abandonment and disappointment.

 As we sat and ate all talking at once about what was going on in their own homes I stared at these beautiful women I now get to call my friends. Who came willingly into my home and who invited me into theirs. That first week after my encounter with the Man of God people were still skeptical about my sudden healing but with each passing day, even those who struggled to believe now eventually came around to accepting me into this community. If they didn’t choose to allow me into their circle and believe that I was clean that was their choice. I was no longer the woman with the blood issue. I was no longer the village outcast. I spent my days helping the sick and the hurting in the village allowing them entry into my home as I cared for them the best I knew how from my many years of having to tend to myself. My home had gone from my own prison to a refuge with doors wide open for anyone seeking comfort. It was my very small way to give back for a gift that I knew I hadn’t earned and to give back to ensure that no one else reached that level of desperation.

Lost in my own thoughts I didn’t hear as one of my friends called to me. So sweet to hear -rather than “Her” or “The unclean woman”- they called out the name I had long since begun to forget from lack of hearing. My own name. Hope.