I Am Clean

“I’m sorry,” said the physician. “I can do nothing more for you.”

The woman hung her head, her heart bursting with the agony of twelve long years of failed remedies and fruitless treatments. The humiliation of failure hung heavily over her as she paid the man her last farthings and retreated. It was all that was left of the once great fortune that she had brought to this country.

Outside the apothecary the sun was high in the heavens and the woman squinted against the unshielded brightness of its light. The streets of Capernaum were bustling with midday activity and the woman made her way to the central marketplace; however, as she walked along the press of people parted to let her through. Her ailment was known in the city and she had long been ostracized by its inhabitants who feared touching her lest they become unclean.

“Fresh fish! Get your fresh fish! Only out of the sea this morning!” shouted the fishmonger to the bustling crowd.

“The finest linens from Egypt,” breathed the clothier to the passersby.

“Olives! Get your oil here!” The olive merchant added to the general din of the marketplace.

The woman stumbled, overwhelmed by her sorrows and the heat of the day; she crumpled to her knees against a cold stone wall. “It will soon be over,” she thought. “I haven’t the strength to continue.” The woman remained there and the crowd filled the space she had left.

She was unsure how long she stayed there as she drifted in and out of consciousness, shrouded in the dingy robes that had once been fine. She was waiting and hoping for the death she knew would certainly come. No one paused to help her or inquire after her wellbeing and eventually the shadows began to lengthen in the bright afternoon sunlight. It was near closing time and the marketplace was busier than ever with customers purchasing a few last minute necessities when a hush fell over the crowd. The woman noticed the difference and raised her head ever so slightly.

She saw a man in light robes enter the market place, flanked by several others who were obviously accompanying him. He walked with quiet dignity, his eyes kindly surveying the crowd about him. On his face was an expression of serene strength that was strangely familiar to the woman; although, she had never seen any man look like that before. Somehow she felt that he would not shun her as the others did.

“It’s that Jesus of Nazareth again, come to make some more trouble!” The fishmonger’s words startled the woman out of her reverie. Could it be? She had heard stories told in the streets about this Jesus and the wondrous miracles he had performed. Some of the tellers had believed, but most had thought it ridiculous. After all, a dead person was dead, wasn’t he? But as the woman raised her face to look at the man, she felt hope flooding through her soul. What if the stories were true and he could perform miracles? There was something in his countenance that suggested a supreme strength, something in his gait that suggested a surety more firm than the rocks of the mountains that surrounded Capernaum. This strength suggested wisdom far deeper than any held by the physicians she had visited in her vain attempts to be rid of the horrid issue of blood that had so long beset her and, suddenly, she formed a resolution in her mind and in her heart.

“If I can but touch his robes, I shall be whole,” she whispered to herself. He was coming and she crawled gingerly to the edge of the crowd, gathering her robes around her shaking form. Somehow she knew that this would be the end and her heart took courage in the faith that he would heal her.

The press began to close around her, forcing her back. “No!” thought the woman, “Not now, he is too close!” And with a strength she did not know she possessed she fought her way through the press just as he was passing. Reaching out, her fingertips brushed the dusty hem of his robes and she withdrew, pressed back by the crowd.

Later, when she recalled the day of her healing, the woman would remember the great peace that enveloped her as her fingertips touched his garments. She would recall with tears in her eyes the miraculous feeling in her own body as the issue of blood that had flowed these twelve years was staunched instantly. She would revel in the quiet strength that had flooded through her and erased the pain of so many years’ suffering. She would recall his face.

“Who touched my robes?” The procession stopped and the man named Jesus turned himself around to those who were with him.

“Master, the multitude throng thee and press thee, and sayest thou, Who touched me?” One of the man’s companions was speaking to him, a perplexed look on his face.

“Somebody hath touched me,” responded Jesus, “For I perceive that virtue is gone out of me.” He looked toward the crowd questioningly but kindly. The woman saw his face and knew that she must reveal herself. She made her way quietly again through the crowd until she was standing before him.

“Master,” she said, bowing her head, “It was I who touched your robes.” She raised her eyes, half expecting to see anger in his and yet knowing somehow that she would see the kindness there that had before given her courage. He smiled. “I am healed!” She exclaimed this, tears coursing down her hollow cheeks, her once dull eyes bright with hope. He spoke once again.

“Daughter, be of good comfort. Thy faith hath made thee whole. Go in peace.”

Turning, Jesus continued on his way and the woman, smiling for the first time since her sickness began, went to her own house rejoicing.

© Katherine Cedergreen Otterstrom 2009