She trails behind the crowd, uncertain if she should approach. The mass of people overwhelms her; she can’t see what he’s doing, where he’s going, let alone hear him speak.
She’s heard the reports about Jesus, amazing reports. Of healings, exorcisms, miracles. And she needs a miracle. It’s been 12 years—12 long years of her very lifeblood draining from her. And not only that, but her savings, her possessions, her strength, her hope that anything will ever change.
Here, standing before her, is the one they say is a miracle-worker, a change-maker, the one who can make the impossible happen—and stop it from happening.
A man says Jesus is on his way to heal someone’s daughter. So I have this one chance, she thinks. If I touch even his garments, I will be made well.
Though Jesus is the one she’s been waiting for, she hasn’t known it until now. And she refuses to miss her chance.
Mustering all her courage and strength, she picks up the pace and squeezes through the crowd. Finally she reaches him, extending her arm to touch his robe.