Miracles: Part I

The other day I came across some writings I did as a sophomore at BYU for a religion class project. I read stories from Jesus' life, especially stories of miracles he performed. I put myself in the miracle recipient's position and wrote the story from their perspective. Obviously not doctrine, but it was a blessing to write and re-read. This was the first one I wrote, and is probably my favorite. Hope you enjoy. 

Matthew 9:20-22/Mark 5:25-34

The Woman with the “Issue of Blood”

                I had heard of this Jesus first by a woman who whispered His name to another as they shopped for their bread in the market. Most of the words were inaudible mumbles, as if they were afraid someone might hear. But there was one word I did catch, one I could not mistake.

                “Miracles,” the woman whispered and her companion shook her head. Heaven knows that’s what I needed. Twelve years I had suffered a sickness that no doctor could cure. Twelve long  years.

                My hand looked so withered, so old, I remember thinking. I leaned my head against the stone wall that serves as the backdrop of my humiliation and desperation. I have spent my days sitting in this corner too ashamed to even beg, since I spent all my wealth on physicians who couldn’t heal me.

                I have consigned myself to die here, the life slowly leaking out of me, because death means relief. Peace. Sleep. The only part of death I remorse is the fact that if, at this moment, my mortality slipped away, no one would notice; no one would care. No one would wear black or mourn me.

                “Jesus,” I heard another man whisper.

                “The carpenter’s son,” another said.

                More mumbling, fast whispering. The crowd starts to drift, all in the same direction.

                “Why is everyone leaving?” I wonder. “Has a disagreement broken out in the market?”

                “He is coming!” I hear a woman say to her husband. “Come quickly!”

                The whispers are growing into loud shouts now. Over and over, I hear His name repeated. “Jesus.” I struggle to move back further into the wall as the anxious crowd pushes past me.

                “Why are they all rushing to see this Jesus? Why does He cause such a stir?” I ponder. I see a man with a crippled leg hobble past, struggling to keep up with the crowd. I see a man carrying a limp child as his wife clings anxiously to his arm. And then I remember that word.

                “Miracles,” the woman had said.

                And although my soul was so heavy and so sick, almost more so than my body, something urged me to join the throng. I needed to find Jesus. A hand that I could not see grasped my own and pulled me to my tired feet. And suddenly I was being pushed along by the crowd. It was moving so quickly, I thought I might drown in it. But I couldn’t give up. I had to find Him. This man called Jesus, the man I didn’t know¾He was my last hope.

                The crowd around me pulled and pushed on my sick, weary body, and I felt the last of my strength depleting more and more quickly. I strained my neck above the other heads around me to try to see Him, this Man I did not know.

                Finally, I spotted Him. I don’t know how, but I knew it was Him. I refused to take my eyes off of Him as I frantically weaved through the crowd. With strength coming to me from where I didn’t know, I found myself nearly to Him. And it was then I realized that I could not speak to the Master. I could not approach this Man they called “Savior” in my shameful destitution. I could not plea with Him to take away my sickness that plagued both body and soul.

                “I will fall back, then,” I decided. “I will let this Man alone. I will not burden Him with my illness.”

                But then that same invisible hand took mine again and pulled me forward, urging me onward. I studied my own hands again¾my withered, old hands.

                “If I may but touch his clothes, I shall be whole,” I whispered, feeling the courage to do at least that. Hand shaking, I reached out and lightly brushed the hem of His garment with my trembling fingers. After that it took only a moment to be whisked away by the relentless crowd, brushed to the side as they carried on.

                I looked at my hand again, the one that touched His garment, and I knew that I was healed. I knew from that moment that I would never suffer such physical pain again. I shrank to my knees there on the ground in exhaustive joy and relief. Tears of gratitude streamed down my face. I closed my eyes to offer up a humble prayer of thanks. When I opened them, a Man with the kindest face I have ever seen was looking back at me. He was kneeling across from me and had taken my hand in both of His.

                “Daughter, thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace, and be whole of thy plague,” He said to me. I knew that day that it was not just my physical body that was made whole, but my spirit was healed as well. And I was at peace. I knew that this Man, the one they called Jesus, loved even me. For He felt me when I touched Him.