Enkindle - Who touched me?

Twelve long years, I lived in the shadows, a prisoner of my own body. My life was consumed by an affliction that drained my strength and stripped away every ounce of dignity. I had sought help, oh, how many physicians had I visited, chasing a cure, clinging to their empty promises. But no healing ever came. Only mounting costs, crushing poverty, and a growing sense of despair.

 I was unclean, cast aside by society. People avoided me as though I were a leper. My condition was not merely physical; it bore the weight of rejection and isolation. I could not worship in the temple, could not embrace my family, could not even walk openly in the marketplace without feeling the shame of being a ghost among the living. My existence felt like a burden I had to carry alone.

 And then, one day, whispers reached me, a murmur of hope that cut through my despair. “A healer,” they said. “A teacher. A man who opens blind eyes and makes the lame walk.” Some called Him a prophet; others dared to say He was the Messiah. I did not know what to believe, but for the first time in years, something stirred within me. It was faint fragile hope.

 When I learned that Jesus would be passing through my town, a mixture of fear and excitement overwhelmed me. Could I even approach Him? What if He rejected me like all the others? What if I was wrong, and my hope was just another cruel illusion? And yet, I could not ignore the chance that this might be my only opportunity to be free.

 The streets were more crowded than I had imagined, a sea of people pressing in from every side. I was not sure how I would reach Him, but my plan was simple: I would not stop Him, would not speak to Him, just touch Him, just the fringe of His garment. The words of the prophet Malachi echoed in my heart, fuelling my resolve, “The sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its wings.”

 Step by step, I pushed through the crowd. Each movement felt like a battle against the voices in my mind that whispered, “You are not worthy. Turn back!” But I pressed on, keeping my eyes fixed on Him. When I finally drew close enough, I reached out with trembling hands and brushed the edge of His garment.

 It was the faintest touch, barely more than a whisper of contact, but in that instant, something changed. Warmth flooded through me, and I knew. I knew I was healed. The bleeding that had ruled my life for twelve years stopped as suddenly as it had begun. My body felt whole, strong; stronger than I had dared to dream.

Tears welled in my eyes, a tidal wave of gratitude and relief. I wanted to laugh, to cry, to shout for joy, and before I could slip away into the thick of the crowd, He stopped.

 “Who touched me?” His voice rang out, clear and steady. My heart stopped. How did He know? How could He possibly feel a touch so small and fleeting in the crush of the crowd? Even His disciples seemed bewildered. “Master, the crowd is pressing against you, and you ask, ‘Who touched me?’” they said.

 But He did not move on. He stood there, scanning the crowd, waiting. He was searching for me.

I could have stayed silent. I could have slipped away and carried my miracle in secret. But something in His eyes, in the patience with which He waited, compelled me to step forward. My legs trembled as I fell at His feet.

 Through tears, I poured out my story, the years of suffering, the isolation, the despair that had nearly crushed me. I confessed my desperation, my audacity in daring to touch Him, knowing I was unclean. I expected anger, perhaps even rebuke. After all, I had broken the law. I had risked defiling Him with my touch.

 But when He looked at me, there was no anger, no condemnation. Only compassion. His eyes were filled with a kindness so profound that it took my breath away. And then He spoke. “Daughter,” He said gently, “your faith has healed you. Go in peace.”

 Daughter. A word I had not heard in years. A word that spoke of belonging, of being seen, of being loved. Tears streamed down my face as His words sank in. I was not just healed, I was restored.

 I carry His words with me even now, a reminder of the power of faith and the boundless compassion of the One who heals. To anyone who feels lost or forgotten, to anyone burdened by life’s struggles, I offer this encouragement, push through. Push through the noise, the fear, the doubts. Reach out, even if it is with trembling hands, and touch the wings of His garment. His healing, His peace, it is for you too.

Shalom,

Jim Varsos