While the beating of her heart strengthened all the more, the strength of her stomach and her courage lessened by the minute. She paused with her hand resting on the sycamore tree she had just come upon, looking beyond to the imposing crowd gathered tightly and grasping for attention from the very Man she longed to meet. A qualm of discouragement swept over her; there was no possible avenue on which she could reach Jesus but through the belittling mob. She imagined how they would cast their condemning, pious glances at her and turn away with disgust. But the searing pain in her body and the aching shame in her heart pushed her on, up to, into the crowd, disregarding the insulting comments and eyes full of contempt. Her eyes were set on Jesus.
From the vantage point that her small stature and blocked view gave her, she only caught a glimpse of His hair, dark, rich brown which glinted so in the sunlight that it seemed to give off light itself. Then, just a little stretch downward, the woman saw the form of a tassel, sewn into the hem of Jesus’ outer robe. Oh, to be able to touch that tassel! That would be enough, she thought and felt so strongly that she found herself pushing, pushing past people hindering her way to Jesus, pushing down for a moment any self-consciousness or reminder of cultural rules which would keep her from her goal. In a flurry of excitement, she reached out and caught hold of the prized tassel, holding it only for a moment as a man would clasp his wife’s hand, gently, before he left for war. Then she let go. In an instant, a furious peace rushed over the once-aching, once-damaged, once-bleeding body; it was such a great calm that she nearly fell to the ground. Finally her body felt the rest that it had so desperately needed for twelve painful years.
But it was in that same moment that the Teacher stopped, the crowd around Him also stopping in question. With a fearful heart, the woman watched his neck become erect, his back slightly straighten, as a horse that has sensed danger cautiously observes the land about him. Then from his lips paraded three gently inquiring words: “Who touched Me?”
To the woman, though her happiness was very great, her fear threatened to conquer the territories of her soul and become greater. For a moment she said nothing. The men gathered closest to Jesus had not seen the woman in her action and seemed to think Jesus strange. They asked Him, “Teacher, You must see all of these people around You, reaching out and touching You every moment. Why do You say, ‘Who touched Me?’”
Yet the Master was unfazed. He continued to survey the crowd surrounding Him, sure that the hand which touched Him still trembled there in the mass. “Who touched Me?” he asked again, with a calm, reassuring tone. “For I felt power leave Me.”
The woman gasped, not quite audibly, knowing her fate was sealed. In a humbling of self, she dropped slowly to her knees and admitted, “It was I, my Lord,” all the while trembling, just as the dress which wrapped around her shook in the sand-laden wind. She kept her eyes to the ground, hearing feet shuffle quickly around to see her and eyes bore into her harshly.
She could not see the soft smile growing on Jesus’ face.
Sandaled feet, coated in dust, advanced toward her. A hush had long since hovered over the crowd as they watched the tune of a new melody begin to unfold in the woman’s life. The people, the burning sun, and the cloudless sky seemed to fall away as Jesus uttered His first word. In the days afterward and for the rest of her life, she was never truly sure that the Master really did the things He was about to do, or if His words were enough to produce such a great overflow of love within her.
He bent and stretched out his hand, softly cupping her face as He tilted it upward to see His. The grace and majesty of a thousand kings could never surpass the utter beauty which came from His eyes.
“Go in peace, daughter; your faith has made you whole.”
She nodded imperceptibly, still lost in His words, His touch, and her own joy, lost as to what to say. She finally decided to say nothing at all. Grasping his hand gently, she could only smile, lips quivering with gathering tears. He beamed back at her, then straightened and tenderly pulled His hand away. With a lingering gaze He turned and continued on to His mission, to save a young girl dangling dangerously over the cliff of death.
The woman testified for the rest of her life, as she told every person she met about Jesus, that when her mind went back to that glorious day, she still felt the Master’s hand pressed sweetly to her cheek.