One Woman's Freedom

by Zack Hensley

I wrote this from the perspective of "the woman with the issue of blood" from Mark 5:24-34.

Hot and uncomfortable is the dirt that tortures my ankles, as I sit on them to rest. The hot sun beats on my face, adding to the fever of my disease. I sit in the middle of this busy city watching people pass. I observe beautiful woman being pursued by young men, a reminder of long ago when they used to pursue me. Some would leave beautifully written poetry at my window, while others would buy me oil, perfumes, or even beautiful jewelry. Those times were long ago now, my husband no longer wants to see my face, my children disowned me, and I roam the earth alone. Cursed be this sickness in me! Cursed be the day it made a home in this vessel which I dwell. So I’m diseased, marked, a plague to the rest of the world, good for nothing except to roam. Why stay alive you ask? I’ve asked myself many times, when a voice inside me says, “just wait, I am coming.” How queer is that, queer enough to be crazy I tell you. But at my age if I start doubting the voice inside me now then I have nothing to hold on to. If I’m sick I might as well be crazy too, staying alive because of a voice I hear, certainly a sign of insanity. So I sit on the hot desert floor, nestled between these two buildings, using the shade they make as my haven from the hellish sun. When, all at once, the people around me all seem to be preoccupied with something down the street. I can’t see the road from where I’m sitting and really don’t want to leave my newly found shelter from the sun. From what I can tell there are many people coming, loud, like the sound of rushing water. Like the rising crescendo of a sustained cymbal, I hear a large crowd coming down the road. I decide to ignore it when, it comes, that voice inside me. Only this time it’s loud almost audible, shaking by sickly chest, “I’m coming!” Tears fill my eyes as I wonder if its death that’s coming, or something else. Then again it shakes me, “I’m coming”. Only this time it has a sense of hope behind it. Surely if it was death, he would not be so kind as to warn me politely of his coming. The voice sounds yet again, this time with instruction “I’m coming, with healing in my garments, go to the road and be healed.” Tears now fill not only my eyes but my face, pouring onto the collar of my garments. Could this be true? Could I be healed? I have no strength to walk, but I find some way to pull myself along the ground. Scratching, and clawing to get to the road, while pain being the only thing holding me back now. As I near the road I ask the man standing beside me what’s going on. He looks at me in disgust, and moves to the other side of the road. I ask all the people around me whose coming? But no one will answer. Then the voice inside me roars, “ I’m coming, I am the one you heard about, I come with healing in my garments” I wait in anticipation for the crowd to come near, waiting to see what this is that stirs my heart to speech. As they near, I hear a man yelling, “Come and see! This man heals the sick! They say he’s the messiah!” My heart stops, the messiah? Surely it could not be him. Then the voice in me rumbles again, “I’m coming, be healed”. Remembering then an old teaching by the prophet Malachi, he said the Son of God would come with healing in his garments. My soul awakens; hope becomes the blood flowing through my veins. The crowd approaches, I crawl into the road, hoping to see my messiah. Then in an instant, he appears through the faces going by. Surrounded by men asking questions, he quickly glances at me. The my soul speaks again, “I’m here, be healed”, he smiles and moves on. I think to myself If he has healing in his garments, then all I must do is touch them. I move after him with all my strength, conserving nothing. Faster, and faster I crawl my sickness rapidly increasing. I’m behind him now, I reach up my hand to grab the tassels of his garments. I grasp them, a light flashes in my head, and I fall to the ground. I feel heavy like something is on top of me, then as fast as it came it leaves taking my sickness with it. My bleeding stops, the pain leaves, and strength stand is left. My messiah asks the men around him, “who touched me?”. I want to tell him that it was me, but what if he is angry? He asks again, I run in front of him and fall at his feet weeping with gratefulness, and fear. I say to him, “It was me who touched you, and in doing so I’ve been healed from my disease instantly.” He bends down puts his finger under my chin pulling it up to his. His eyes speak love, and his face breaths peace, as fear vanishes from my heart. “Go now, your faith has made you well.” He smiles one last time, turning my heart into a fountain of desire. I close my eyes, wanting to remember that smile, wanting to remember the day the Messiah stole my heart. Blessed be this day when my heart was transformed from pain, to love, his smile, forever imprinted on my spirit, and his love forever being the strength in my being.