I need healing. There’s no doubt about that. It’s been 12 years — 12 years of bleeding. I am constantly in pain. I am constantly weak. I constantly feel as if every ounce of life is being steadily drained out of my spirit, out of my soul, out of my body.
And I am constantly unclean.
Perhaps — no. I am sure of it. One touch of his robe and I will be made well.
* * *
She looks as if she’s just sleeping. How like her to lie in bed without a noise. How like her to look as if she is barely breathing. How like her to fool people into thinking that she is dead. She has always been such a joker.
“Sir Jairus, I am sorry, but it doesn’t seem as if she will make it. In a few hours — nay, perhaps a few minutes — sooner or later, your daughter is likely to cross over –“
Cross over? Die? No.
“They say the man named Jesus is in town. They say he is a prophet. Watch over the little one. I shall find him and ask him to make her well.”
* * *
There he is. Why are there so many people surrounding him? They are not making this easy. He is so near – yet so, so far. I will make it through the crowd. I will touch his robe. I will —
* * *
“Rabbi! My little girl is at the point of dying! Come at once! Lay your hands on her and she will be healed.” I have fallen to my feet but I do not care. My daughter is in need of healing. If he would come quickly enough, she will be —
* * *
Healed. I am healed. There is no denying it. The blood has stopped flowing. For years the physicians have been trying to keep the blood from discharging. For a thousand or so dinars they have used medicine to try to get me clean. But now — I can not believe it. All it took was a moment. All it took was a single touch. All it took was —
“Who touched me? Somebody touched me.”
“I am sorry, Rabbi. It was I who touched you. It was I.” My trembling voice betrays my escalating fear.
“Go in peace, daughter. It is your faith that made you well.”
* * *
“Sir Jairus, please get up. I am afraid we have some very bad news. Your daughter — she’s — she’s — do not trouble the teacher any more. Your daughter is dead.”
My little girl? Dead? That can not be! If only Jesus had only gotten to my house sooner! Why, if it wasn’t for this crowd! If it wasn’t for that woman! If — it’s too late. It is too late.
“Jairus.” I hear him speak my name. “Don’t be afraid. Believe. She will be well.”
* * *
Go in peace. Go in peace, he said! My faith – he said my faith has made me well! Oh what joy! Oh what freedom! Oh what peace I have inside of me! I am made well!
* * *
“Why are you crying? Do not cry. She’s only sleeping. See, watch her rise.”
The good teacher is inside my home. Yes, he is finally inside my home but he is too late. My little girl has already crossed over. My little girl is already dead.
“Rise up, my dearest.”
Great heavens! Her fingers are moving! Her feet are trembling! Her eyes — is it true? Is it true that her eyes are bright and opened wide?
“Abba… I am hungry…”
“Yes, dearest! Yes! At once! At once, my dearest!”
I can not believe it. My daughter is finally well.
Based on Matt 9: 18-26, Mark 5:21-43, and Luke 8:41-56