If you would prefer to listen to this story as an audio recording, CLICK HERE.

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Jesus came to bring

good news to the afflicted,

healing to the brokenhearted,

freedom to the captive,

comfort to those who mourn,

joy to those who sorrow,

gladness instead of tears, and

praise instead of despair.(1)

This week i continue with the second of three stories about men and women who experienced that message of hope at the moment of their greatest despair.  

You will recognize the main character in this story as the one who is often referred to as the woman with the issue of blood. However i have added fictional elements to her story to help us better see the desperation in her life leading up to her encounter with the only One who was able to bring her hope.

For those of you who would prefer to listen to her story (as recorded by my wife, LaVonne), you will find the link below.

i invite you to read (or listen to) the portion of her story you may already know … and the rest that could have been. Though some of the other characters and details contained in the story are fictional, you will find the truth conveyed about the One who brings hope to the hopeless is very REAL! My prayer is that you will allow this story to be a personal reminder that the One who brought her hope is capable of bringing it to each one of us today … if we will only receive it.

Stories of Hope (part 1) - The Despairing Father (Last week – June 29)

Stories of Hope (part 2) - The Woman Who Had Lost All Hope (This week - July 6)

Stories of Hope (part 3) - The Blind Son (Next week - July 13)

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My name is Deborah, and I am my parents’ eldest daughter. They named me after the prophetess who served as the fourth judge of Israel in the pre-monarchic days. She was a strong woman and a formidable leader who brought peace to the land by defeating the mighty Canaanite army led by their feared general, Sisera. My parents were hopeful I would emulate the strength, courage, and wisdom of my namesake.

I grew up in the village of Magdala. Until Herod Antipas built the city of Tiberias, Magdala was the most important city on the western shore of the Sea of Galilee. My father was sent from Jerusalem to serve as the chief rabbi of our synagogue by the high priest himself. It was a high honor and our family was well-respected  in the community.

As a result, I enjoyed many privileges growing up. I never wanted for anything, including friends and companionship. Other girls sought me out and were honored to be my friends. My parents began to plan who my husband would be while I was still a child. It was difficult for them to identify a family they believed held the same social standing within our community. But eventually they chose Matthias, the son of a member of our local Sanhedrin.

Matthias’s parents were equally concerned about their social standing and agreed that our betrothal would strengthen the position of both families. The announcement of our betrothal while Matthias and I were still teenagers was met with approval and celebration throughout the city. He and I were the most envied and considered to be without peer. We were to be married when I turned eighteen.

My mother planned every part of our wedding celebration with painstaking detail. It would be the major social event of our city for years to come. In many respects it was like a marvelous dream filled with the happiest of endings.

A few weeks before our planned wedding feast, I woke up to discover I was experiencing an unusual flow of blood. I screamed and called out to my mother. She assured me there was no reason to be alarmed, and it would pass in a few days. Her assurance gave me confidence. We decided that I just needed to rest for a few days. My mother cleaned my bed linens, my clothing, and helped me take added measures to contain my bleeding.

However, one week later, I continued to hemorrhage. My mother decided to call one of the village’s trusted midwives to get her opinion on what we should do. The midwife prescribed an elaborate herbal remedy and promised me the bleeding would stop in a few days. However, those days passed but the bleeding did not!

My mother told my father what was happening, and He immediately sent word for the local physician to come. After the doctor learned how much blood I was passing and how long it had been taking place, he prescribed a different regimen of treatment.

In accordance with the law, I was considered unclean. Initially, I experienced the normal separation from others that was expected of a young woman during her cycle. But as my condition continued, my separation from others became more pronounced. I had not seen Matthias in over a month. My father kept his distance because he could not be deemed unclean by association. As a soon-to-be-married young woman, my days should have been filled with celebrations and joyful gatherings with friends. But instead, they had become days of isolation.

As my wedding day approached, our two families decided to postpone the ceremony. The physician’s treatments were unsuccessful, and my condition had not improved. I began to hear whispers, when others thought I couldn’t hear, that this must be a judgment from God for unconfessed sin.

My parents decided to send me to Jerusalem to see a respected and prominent physician. Surely, he would know how to treat me and put an end to my suffering. My father arranged for a cart and donkey to carry me there. My mother, the midwife who was helping to treat me, and several servants accompanied me. The seventy-mile journey was slow and arduous, and took us five days. I was terribly weak by the time we arrived.

The physician in Jerusalem initially gave me cause to hope. He was very knowledgeable and assured me he would diagnose my ailment and find a treatment that worked. But days turned into weeks and weeks became months. I was no better than when I first arrived in Jerusalem. The only thing that was beginning to lessen was the bag of money my father sent with my mother for my treatment.

While we were in the city, my mother went to the temple on multiple occasions to consult with the priests. We attempted to follow their spiritual remedies just as faithfully as we did the physicians’ medical remedies – but again, with no success. Finally, my mother told me we had no more money, and we needed to return home.

As difficult as the journey had been to Jerusalem, at least then I was hopeful for a cure. Now as we returned to Magdala, I had no hope whatsoever. All my life I had been bubbly and vivacious, but now I was sullen and depressed. Six months had passed since my originally planned wedding date.

The day we arrived back in Magdala, Matthias’s father and mother came to visit my parents. After hearing that my condition was unchanged, they decided the betrothal contract between Matthias and me needed to be canceled. My uncleanness prevented me from being an acceptable wife for their son. Though my parents attempted to dissuade them by asking for more time to find a cure, Matthias’s parents were resolute. Though I had feared this outcome, hearing the decision was final shattered what remaining hope and spirit I had left. I had not seen Matthias since all of this began, and now I knew I would never see him again!

There was nothing more that could be done for me. We had attempted all of the possible remedies prescribed – both medical and spiritual. We had even tried all of the home remedies that were suggested. I can assure you that the effects of many of the remedies were worse than the illness itself.

As the months continued to pass, my condition took a toll on my family, as well. My parents and my siblings were losing their positions of stature in the community. There was talk that my father needed to step down as chief rabbi. Surely, my “uncleanness” was causing him to be unclean by association – and how could anyone abide the teaching and counsel of an unclean rabbi?

My parents never told me how they were being treated, but occasionally I would hear a whisper or witness a look. I realized that if I remained in their home, my entire family would suffer the effects. I knew I needed to be brave like the prophetess Deborah and take steps to protect my family. I announced that I was going to move to another town so they would no longer be saddled with the shame of my condition. At first my mother and father stringently objected, but eventually they saw the wisdom of my decision.

I decided to move to the village of Capernaum. It wasn’t that far away, but it was far enough that I would be out of sight, and my family would no longer be weighed down by the constant reminder of my condition. Joy could return to their household, and I would live in a place where I was no longer under the critical eye of those who were certain I had committed some unforgivable sin.

My parents helped me find a small home in Capernaum and provided me with an ongoing stipend to help me afford my meager expenses. As required by our laws, I went to the chief rabbi in Capernaum – a man by the name of Nicodemus – and told him of my plight. He listened with a sympathetic ear. He told me that he had a daughter, and he would be just as brokenhearted as my parents if she suffered my condition.

But he went on to tell me what I already knew – that regrettably, no one in the village would be permitted to have direct contact with me. I would live as an outcast – but he would pray that Jehovah God would heal me and deliver me from my pain. I thanked him for his kindness but had little contact with him after that day.

He did send me word twice that he had heard of new remedies that were successful in other cases. He directed me to the village physician, but in both instances the remedies had no effect on me other than draining my already limited resources.

Rabbi Nicodemus moved away four years ago to take a position in Jerusalem, and Rabbi Jairus took his place as chief rabbi. Prior to this week, I have seen him on two occasions – but his response to me was the same as that of his predecessor.

Last week was my thirtieth birthday, but there was no celebration. The past twelve years have not been kind to me. My condition has not improved since the first day I fell ill. I have not experienced one day of relief; neither have I experienced one day of joy. I look like I am at least fifty years old.

I have no friends. I have very limited contact with the people who live around me. Most of the people in the village don’t even know I exist, with the exception of one young girl by the name of Ilana. She is the chief rabbi’s daughter, and on more than one occasion she has extended kindness by leaving wildflowers at my door to cheer me up.

My parents continue to send money to provide for my needs, and on rare occasions my mother visits me. She would come more often, but I have discouraged it. I see myself as a burden to my parents and want to free them of their burden … and I want to free myself of the bondage of my continuing hopelessness.

I have decided to take my own life – tomorrow. I am making my final preparations. I know it will disgrace my family, but it will not be any greater than the disgrace I have already caused them. I pray they will forgive me and understand my choice.

As I was going over my plan, I heard excited voices outside my home. “Jesus is arriving!” they exclaimed. “Let’s go see Him as He arrives!”

Jesus is quite the celebrity in our village. His mother lives here, as do other members of His family, though I have never met them. Even though I am sheltered from most of the outside world, I still have heard about Jesus. I have heard that He made the blind to see, the lame to walk, and even raised those who were dead to life. There have even been rumors that once, at His spoken word, a storm and the sea were stilled.

Suddenly, I wondered if I should follow the rest of those going to see Him on the shore. Could He possibly heal me? I had tried everything else, why not try Him? For the first time in many years, the faint flame of hope unexpectedly ignited in my heart. I covered myself so I would blend into the crowd. I did not want anyone to recognize me and point to me as unclean.

When I arrived at the shore, I saw that Rabbi Jairus was kneeling before Jesus. As I watched, the rabbi got up from his knees, and he and Jesus started walking toward the village. Jesus was obviously on important synagogue business. I wouldn’t even be able to get close to Him. The crowd surrounding Jesus seemed impenetrable. How could I possibly get close enough to speak to Him? And besides, I am a nobody. I am just one of the many nameless, faceless, desperate people in the crowd.

But a voice in my head said, “What would the prophetess Deborah do? Would she resign herself to defeat, or would she step out in courage?” I suddenly knew I had to try. So, I mustered the little strength I had left, and began to press my way through the crowd. I was approaching Him from behind so I would be as inconspicuous as possible. Fortunately, the crowd was also pressing in front of Him and slowing down His progress. It was just enough that I was able to get near Him.

I decided He didn’t even need to speak to me. I was convinced that all I needed to do was touch His garment. I was certain that would be enough to make me well. Jesus was my last hope! And I would not be deterred!

I continued to push forward until I was within inches of Jesus. I reached out my hand … and gently touched His robe. Immediately, I knew I was healed! After twelve years of bondage to this illness, I knew I had been set free.

I stood still as the crowd moved around me and continued to press forward. I knew my quest was over. I had experienced the healing I had come to believe was no longer possible.

Then all of a sudden, Jesus stopped and turned around. His eyes met mine, and I heard Him say, “Who touched My robe?”(2) I saw one of His followers lean toward Him and say, “Master, look at the crowd pressing in on You. How can You ask, ‘Who touched My robe?’”(3)

But I knew that He knew! With fear and trembling, I fell down before Him. As I looked up into His eyes, I saw a kindness, a gentleness, and compassion unlike anything I had ever witnessed. And I told Jesus what I had done and why.

But as I spoke, I had an overwhelming peace that Jesus already knew the answer. He had known before the day began that He would encounter me, and I would touch His garment. It was almost as if He had been waiting for my arrival. I may have thought I was just a face in the crowd, but I was now convinced that I had, in fact, been one of the reasons Jesus returned to Capernaum. He had prompted me to come see Him. He had ignited that ember of hope in my heart.

And when Jesus said to me, “Daughter, your faith has made you well – go in peace – your suffering is over,”(4) I walked away with more than just a physical healing. I walked away with my sins forgiven and my hope restored.

Later that day, I traveled to my parents’ home in Magdala and told them what Jesus had done. All they needed to do was take one look at me to know I had been healed. Joy and laughter had returned to my life ... and now my life would never be the same.

My parents wanted me to move back home and begin to rebuild my life. I thanked them for their kindness and their support, but I told them that Jesus had already rebuilt my life. I knew what I must do. I would go and follow the One who had stood before me and taken away my suffering by the mere touch of His robe.

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This story is taken from The One Who Stood Before Us, a collection of forty short stories. The complete collection is available through Amazon in standard print, large print, for your e-reader. Click HERE for more information on how you can obtain your copy.

You can listen to an audio recording of this story by tuning into this week’s episode of my podcast by CLICKING HERE

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The Scripture references are as follows. Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

(1)  Isaiah 61:1-3 (paraphrase)

(2)  Mark 5:30

(3)  Mark 5:31

(4)  Mark 5:34

Copyright © 2022 Kenneth A. Winter All rights reserved.

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