Just The Hem

She pressed forward through the throng, through the endless sea of bodies and voices filling every inch of the street. The journey seemed a distant memory now. She could scarcely recall how far she had traveled to this place. How many hours had it taken? How many days? It no longer mattered. She was conscious of only one thing, willing each foot forward with single-minded determination.

Just the hem, she repeated to herself, a mantra that that propelled her through the fatigue of travel and the jostling of the crowd. If I can’t reach him, just the hem will be enough.

The road to this place had been much longer than the physical journey to arrive here. In fact, it had started more than a decade before. Twelve years of suffering, of humiliation, of isolation. To bleed was to be unclean, and to be unclean was to be cut off from the very heart of community. She had suffered greatly: at the hands of physicians, of neighbors and friends, of a culture intended to protect and yet twisted to exclude. She had been bankrupted by physicians, poured out in every possible way. There was nothing left to cling to. Nothing, but the hem.

What was it that drove her forward? Desperation? Was it an act of near-defeat, the last choice of despair? Was the hem all she thought herself deserving to touch, after so long on the fringes of society?

Or was it something more? Was it the stories she had heard? The miracles others described? The sight of others he’d touched before her? Her heart beat faster at the very possibility, at the knowledge that just a little of him was more than all she’d ever had. She knew, more surely than she knew anything, that his power was so infinite that just a strand of his garment could change her life.

No matter the distance, no matter the crowds, no matter the ostracization that had kept her outside of her community for so long, she pressed on. Just the hem, just the hem, just the hem.

And then, there he was. Surrounded on all sides by people, yet he was unmistakable. There was a kindness in his eyes, a spark of joy. There was a magnetism, a peace that emanated from every fiber of his being. There was love. Even from a distance, she could feel it. To be near him was to be in the presence of love. No wonder the crowds gathered.

She pressed forward, dropping to her knees now as she pushed against the tide of bodies. She hardly realized what she was doing, crawling slowly, ever closer, through the dust of the street. She reached out with all of the history of her pain, her suffering, her loneliness, her hopelessness—she reached out toward him.

She felt the rough fabric between her fingers and held tight to it, as though the hem itself were a lifeline; the wearer, her rescuer.

Just the hem, she thought, and I will be healed.

A rush of warmth washed over her. Her heart raced. Instantly, she knew. The bleeding had stopped. She was free. She was healed. She was whole.

She let the fabric fall from her fingers, and slipped quietly back through the crowd. Her cheeks were flushed. The stories she had heard were true. This man had real power—with just a touch of his clothes, she had been healed. Her life was restored. Oh, this beautiful man! She began to dream of returning to the life she’d lost, of being welcomed into community, of the fullness of all that had happened to her.

Just then, the crowd grew still. She peered through the sea of bodies to where Jesus stood, surrounded by his disciples.

“Jesus, look at this crowd,” one of them was saying. “You are surrounded by people pressing in on you. How can you ask who touched you? We’ve all touched you!”

“No,” Jesus was replying, “someone touched me. I know that power has gone out of me.”

Suddenly her heart sank. Of course he would know, she thought desperately. How foolish I was to think I could touch him and not be noticed. How could I do such a thing? How could I presume? Oh, what have I done?

She felt tears spring to her eyes, suddenly ashamed of her boldness. He was looking around now. He would know, surely he would know. A sob caught in her throat as she pressed forward through the crowds once more. She stumbled, blinded now by tears of humiliation and fear, and fell at his feet. She trembled, not daring to look up at him.

“I touched you, sir,” she whispered weakly. “I—I was desperate. For twelve years, I’ve been bleeding. I had nowhere else to turn. I was told you had the power to heal, and so I touched you.” She dared a quick glance at Jesus. “Instantly, I was healed.”

She wasn’t sure what she expected to find as she looked up at him. Anger, perhaps, or frustration. Perhaps he would be offended that she, unclean as she was, had dared to touch him. Perhaps he would be indignant that she had interrupted whatever else it was that he had been doing. She had presumed so much…

Yet as her teary eyes met his, she was astonished to find only love. Only tenderness. He looked at her as though he’d known all along it was she who had touched him. As though he had come to this place solely for that purpose. His eyes shone with the light of pride, the warmth of love. It was as though she had understood something about him that no one else had grasped.

“Daughter,” he said gently. Her whole being warmed. The trembling ceased. The word, itself, was an embrace. “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace now.”

She stood slowly to her feet. The sound of the crowd faded away, and she was conscious only of his face. His kindness. His love.

“Go in peace,” he had said. Peace. All the years of pain, of loneliness, of financial ruin—they were erased in an instant. In their place there remained only one thing: peace.

This man was everything she’d been promised. Everything, and more.