"If I Just..."

Faith occurs when you realize where all the power really comes from anyway...


She had only heard about him. She didn't even know what he looked like.

Her eyes scanned the crowd moving toward her, a jostling mass of bodies, continually changing its shape. She guessed he was somewhere in the middle of it. Somewhere.

She glanced around for a means to elevate herself above the crowd to see even his face. Nothing.

As a breeze climbed the hill from the lake below and moved through her thread-bare garments, the damp, stained cloth between her thighs chilled her. She barely felt the summer sun that beat down on everyone else. It seemed she was always cold now. The doctors said it was all the blood loss. God, the blood. How long had this nightmare continued? Ten years? A dozen? Every time she had gone to the doctors, they had poked and prodded her in unimaginable ways.

Her husband--her precious, precious Zerah--had died only months after her continuous bleeding had begun. She thought for a moment about his fire and his zeal, his love and passion for life and for her. And now of his death. Her own seemed not so far off now. She felt like she'd aged 50 years in the last decade.

...ahh, how nice it would be to just stop fighting, to go be with him and end the interminable pain...

She shook her head and felt the tears fly like rain. He'd never have tolerated that kind of thinking from her or from anyone. If there was one thing he'd taught her it was to never give up. Ever.

So she'd endured the humiliating examinations, the agonizing medicines that left her sicker than before, the looks of disgust from man after man, the constant whispers of "Unclean, unclean!" Since Zerah's death, she had been little more than a leper in the eyes of her people.

Even as the crowd moved toward her, she could see a few who recognized her just before their eyes hardened in revulsion. The whole crowd was shouting and talking, muttering and stamping the ground.

And yet even amidst the din, she heard it.

Laughter. A laugh so fresh, so clear, and not so unlike Zerah's.

Her eyes strained for the glimpse of this man, this master, this "messiah".

There...

He was just a man. There was nothing extraordinary about his appearance except...

For a moment, he glanced up and she caught his eyes. It was as if he were made of glass, so deep could she see into his soul--

There was a sudden shout. Someone fell at the master's feet. She watched as the world stopped for him and he listened intently to the man make his request, for a moment, his attention so fixed on the one man that the rest of the crowd all seem to fall away to vapor.

And then, just as quickly, he and the world were moving again, the master following the man. The crowd, released from its state of invisibility, pressed in against him once more, bodies straining just to fall under his shadow.

She realized with a start that he was leaving.

Her response was unhesitant, immediate, instinctual. She dove into the crowd.

...I must get to him...

The mob was moving much quicker now as the master picked up his pace. She could barely make him out among all the bodies. Everyone was shouting and screaming. She wasn't more than 15 steps from him.

She ducked under the arms of two large men who recognized her, cursed, then grabbed for her to yank her away, away from the messiah. Somehow she eluded their big groping hands. Ten steps.

...must get to him...

She darted between two women. Someone stumbled in front of her and she grabbed a robe to keep from falling under the feet of the crowd. Eight steps.

...even if I can just touch him...

The air was heavy. She could smell the hot, sweaty bodies grown acrid in the heat. She pressed on. Five steps.

...just touch him...

A sudden dizziness swept over her and she swayed. Her hands were instantly clammy, her knees clay. Too much strain, too much strain, a doctor's voice echoed in her head.

She locked her jaw and steeled herself. Not now. She could see the back of his head and the collar of his beige cloak.

...just a touch...

His disciples were all around him, forming a loose ring. She stumbled again. A trickle of blood tickled her inner thigh. Not now!

Unclean! Unclean! the words screamed in her head.

...even his cloak...

Through a blur, she saw the beige folds of his cloak suddenly flitting before her eyes, somehow within reach.

...just a touch...

She dived and was suddenly falling slowly--so slowly--deeper and deeper into the crowd until all she saw were the dusty, dirty feet of the mob--

And a flitting beige cloak.

...just a touch...

For the briefest of moments, she felt the soft smooth cloth lightly feather her calloused fingers--

The warmth enveloped her, dancing along every nerve in her body as she collapsed to the ground, mindless of the threat of being trampled.

Her cheek pressed against the dry, dusty path as tiny rocks poked into her ribs and leg. Her lower extremities were ablaze with a liquid fire. Someone stumbled over her, but she didn't feel it.

She inhaled the musty aroma of earth, her senses suddenly electric--

The blood. She didn't know how she knew. But she did.

It had stopped.

She was totally unaware that at her touch to his cloak, the master had come to an abrupt halt and turned quickly around, his clear eyes scanning the crowd.

Men and women were above her screaming at her to get up and out of the way. Through the curses and her own fog, though, she heard his voice, so distinct, so urgent, so insistent--

"Someone touched me."

Fear suddenly curdled her joy.

She heard his disciples trying to pacify him.

She strained to sit up.

"Who touched me?"

Bodies were everywhere, many had touched him. But it was as if he were speaking directly to her, pinning her down with his question. He knew. He had felt her.

He stepped in her direction and the crowd instantly parted around her.

His eyes--those crystal clear eyes--were suddenly burning into her with such intensity, with such amazement that she cried out and collapsed at his feet.

The words poured out in a torrent, the story to which no one had ever bothered to listen: Zerah, her sickness, his death, the doctors, the poverty, the humiliation, the guilt, and the loneliness. And then, the hope. The tiny bit of hope that maybe, maybe he could heal her.

No one saw the tears in the master's eyes as he bent and touched the woman ever so gently, turning her own anguished tear-streaked face to his.

"Daughter," he breathed, and with that single word--and him seeing through to her core--she knew who he was. “Your faith has healed you,” he whispered. “Go in peace. You are free from your suffering."

And then he smiled at her, tenderly kissed her forehead, and turned away back to complete his prior task.

The woman sat in the dust as the crowd moved away. Several faces looked back at her, curiosity or resentment reflected in their gaze. But she had eyes for no one. No one but her healer, her lover, and now, her lord.


© 2000 K.K. Pullen