“a certain woman”
/sə́rtən/ noun
- Suggesting individuality. 2. “Known for sure”[1] by God.
Some researchers estimate that more than 107 billion people have lived on the earth. Over 107 billion lives, souls, personalities, characters, faces. I try to make an extra effort to remember people because I know how good it feels to be remembered, but to be recognized individually, out of over 107 billion faces? That is more than good. That is to feel loved. To feel special. I crave that feeling.
To have been a woman with an issue that alienated her from the world, the society which should have made an effort to care for her, mourn with her, comfort her… what would that feel like? My stomach hurts as I picture that suffocating sort of seclusion.
But then to be thought of as “certain.” A word that establishes surety of place, and suggests merit of place. Known, for sure.
“had suffered many things … and had spent all she had and was nothing bettered, but rather grew worse”
/sə́fər/ verb
- As in, was the object of pain, affliction, temptation, sickness, infirmities, and sin[2]; and had tried everything to overcome on her own, but could not. 2. Tired, frustrated, hurting.
Part of the human condition is that we are dealt a plethora of trials. Life will take, and take plenty. The frustration for me comes in tandem with the lack of sure resolution for those trials… to invest so much energy and emotion and conviction into overcoming something that is just as firmly determined to not be overcome. And then furthermore, to be a natural being with limitations, running against an abstract like “trials” with none: that feels like a stacked race, and I’m not a great runner to begin with.
I realize this sounds cynical and bitter (and maybe it is a little) but I’m not angry so much as exhausted. I’m so… tired. Life struggles have me tired—the big ones like wars in Ukraine and 7.8 magnitude earthquakes in Turkey and chemical spills in Ohio, things that have me worrying about people I don’t know; plus relationships that hurt and lack of relationships that hurt and people I do know, people I care about who are hurting. And the little struggles too, the stomach aches and depleting bank accounts and frozen, slippery sidewalks on the way to my car, the hangnails and stains on my favorite crewneck and cracked windshields of everyday life…they’ve all got me worn out.
When my “issues” started I may have had the tenacity to declare “full steam ahead” and jump back to my feet after a tumble. But right now, I sputter and gasp at the fumes I’m running on.
I think exhaustion exacerbates the problems, too. One frigid day in December I shuffled out of a university class into the courtyard between buildings. My backpack and anxiety were heavy in the crowds of well-bundled students; I began to trudge towards the humanities building when suddenly my poorly-tractioned shoes slipped on insidious ice, sending me to my knees… which also slipped, tipping me onto my outstretched hands… and then my hands slipped, hurtling my face towards the slush-covered concrete. By then there was nothing more to slip, and I lay there prostrate while thousands of (entertained) students carefully tread around me. Had I more energy that day, I may have been strong or sure enough to take more deliberate steps in the first place and avoid such precarious ice, or have been able to catch myself more securely. But I was tired. And one tiny slip turned into a more drastic stumble, which led to a downright cartoon-esque faceplant.
Exhaustion exacerbates the problems. And at some point, if one’s suffering of issues has persisted and time has not proven any improvement, hope turns into desperation, desperation turns into skepticism, and skepticism turns into fear. And then, mangled and gray, fear turns to despondency.
Can you imagine? Spending all, gaining nothing. Investing hope, time, patience, making every effort, expending every energy of finance and body and soul, and making no headway. Suffocating seclusion feels inadequate to describe that scene. I’d have reached despondency after a year or so. She’d been suffering for twelve.
“when she had heard of Jesus, came in the press behind and touched his garment. For she said, If I may touch but his clothes, I shall be made whole”
/ ǰizəs/ noun
- The son of God[3]; a man widely known [to heal]; the only perfectly empathetic man. 2. A motivator and strength through difficulties. 3. A sure bet. 4. Wonderful, Councilor, Savior, Redeemer.
The name “Jesus” is one that I doubt many remember hearing for the first time. It, for me, has simply always been there. The meaning of that name, however, has grown as I have. As a toddler I think I saw Him as a nice man who wanted to hear me sing songs in church. By middle school I think I imagined Him as an all-seeing-eye. In high school I began to see Him as the grand sacrifice He performed out of love, which was intimidating but amazing; a grand enough idea that I could not really wrap my head around it and (like many concepts we encounter in high school,) I held it at arm’s length. I started college, became more independent, and then Jesus became someone I begged for guidance. I left on a proselyting mission, and He became my reason for living. I returned home, and He became my space for venting. I had my heart broken, and my body weaken, and my will power drain, and my mind darken, and He became my medicine. I continued to grow, and He became my friend.
Jesus Christ, the Savior of the World. Saver of Me.
No reputation can match that. What I wouldn’t do to be in a hundred-foot radius of Him. What this certain woman would do, to just touch the hem of what He wore.
His reputation had preceded Him, and she believed every word. Perhaps her solitude was a good place for God to tell her help was coming, quiet enough to hear promises that a man with a reputation like this would exist for her gain. She knew it was He, and she knew what He could do. And she made the effort to reach Him.
“and straightway … she felt … that she was healed”
/híld/ adjective
- Made to feel better; requiring only a moment of contact from the Savior for improvement. 2. Relief. 3. Not to be confused with “cure,” which is a passive moment of submission to a practitioner, but healing which is active, requiring you to be there, fully awake and aware and participatory[4].
Once when I was nine, I let my toddler brother sit on my shoulders in our neighbor’s pool while I walked around. Somehow I got to a spot where my head was submerged, but my legs weren’t strong enough to kick and push toward the elevated pool floor… I was terrified of letting my brother off my shoulders, panicked as my lungs started to burn and pressure built in my throat, and then my foot found ground and I pushed up as hard as I could, throwing my brother off while keeping him in my hands and shooting my head above the water. Black dots filled my vision and I felt like throwing up, and I have never loved a breath of air more.
That’s kind of what it feels like, to me. The breath of air. When He heals.
I wonder if she felt the same way.
“and Jesus, immediately knowing in himself that virtue had gone out of him, turned … and said, Who touched my clothes? … and he looked round about to see her that had done this thing.”
/və́rču/ noun
- “Power”[5] automatically felt by the Giver; Jesus being perfectly aware, taking time to search out and acknowledge, recognize, converse with the ones in need of Him.
A friend once pointed out to me that Jesus—miracle performer, conduit to God—likely already knew exactly who had touched his clothes. And as someone who often healed and would heal another in need willingly, he wasn’t upset about that individual’s act of faith. So why ask?
Maybe, he told me, it was so that the woman had a chance to fully acknowledge her faith. Provide her the opportunity to admit for herself and for everyone else present that she needed Him. That she believed in who He was. Believed He would make her better.
“but the woman fearing and trembling, knowing what was done in her, came and fell down before him, and told him all the truth”
/trúθ/ verb
- An overwhelming amazement, incredulousness, wonder, or awe over a miracle; accompanied by a spilling over of words of one’s circumstances, hopelessness, need, willingness, and healing. 2. An anxiety over worthiness for having power spent on one’s behalf. 3. An admission of weakness or inadequacy, and/or a statement setting out essential religious doctrine[6]. 4. A gratitude for the reality of a Savior.
My “lowest” love languages are gifts and acts of service. I don’t mean to say that I don’t appreciate those things, because I do—immensely so. I hold onto gifts like a hoarder, and am prone to burst into tears when anyone sacrifices time and thought and energy for me. Yesterday my mom sent my cousin (traveling from my hometown in Idaho to my current residence in Utah) with some daffodils to deliver to me, and when I saw them I cried, both at the thoughtfulness of the gift and the willingness of my cousin to play courier.
Still, these “languages” are my lowest because I fear being looked at as an obligation. I feel undeserving and also fear undeserving, and by extent, I fear that if those who give to me realize my undeserving and inadequacy, they may regret having given to me at all. So, is it my ethical duty to inform my givers of my shortcomings? Shouldn’t they know who they’re sacrificing for?
Such a confession would surely be fair to the giver.
This woman’s confession, though, was not for Jesus’ benefit—it was for hers. Telling the “truth” of her imperfection and search for a miracle would not disappoint the other party, make Him regret His gift, change His mind, take the healing back. It would not distance the healed from the healer. I think it would do the opposite: it would secure their relationship. It would allow her to feel the overwhelming, all-consuming love mutually shared by her and Him. It would let her articulate her shift from feeling that lack of deservedness to understanding, that He was as desperate for her to accept the gift as she was desperately in need of it. It would allow her to express her humility and awe.
It would let her say “thank you.”
“and he said unto her, Daughter, thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace”
/féθ/ ; /hól/ ; /pís/ adjective
- To be okay. 2. To be reminded of one’s birthright, and extended a promise (i.e. commitment) of eternal care[7]. 3. To have been made more complete, undisturbed, unimpeded, unharmed, through God and a belief (i.e. conviction) in a Redeemer greater than oneself. 4. A directive to move forward with uniquely divine serenity; to know with a surety of one’s significance to their Heavenly Father.
I know I am young and my claims to struggle may seem naïve, but I will earnestly claim struggle nonetheless— I’ve felt physical and mental and emotional and spiritual suffering more than I thought I could. It’s hurt a lot and has given me plenty of real and metaphorical scar tissue. I’ve traveled the range of faith to despondency and taken souvenir memories from each step. They’re heavy memories. They pull me down but push me forward at the same time, humility-turned-determination.
Every so often when I’ve gotten so tired that I’ve just chosen to sit against the wall while the throng bustles around me, I find myself in reach of that healer. My brushes with Him feel brief, but the relief I get from them is reliable. Those are moments of wholeness, where I feel I’m a certain woman with an issue (or two, or twelve. Hundred.) who believes what she’s heard, while she’s felt alone, about a Savior. And is allowed a miracle for it; and feels healed, overwhelmed, thankful, loved, loving. And at peace.
[1] Oxford English Dictionary, “certain” [2] Alma 7:11-13 [3] MacMillan Dictionary, “Jesus Christ” [4] Elaine S. Marshall, “Learning the Healer’s Art” [5] KJV Bible, footnotes by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints [6] Oxford Languages, “confession” [7] Matthew 28:20
