I watch the procession from a distance at first, too frightened to get too close. What if someone recognises me? What if they can tell just by looking at me?
I’ve felt so different for so long, I’m sure it must be obvious. Is it written all over my face, – the label, this experience, my suffering?
Shame whispers its familiar suggestions, tormenting my bruised spirit: I shouldn’t be here. I am unworthy. He will reject me. He will look upon me and despise me. They will all know. I should be hiding, not out here in the noonday sun, not amongst these people, not daring to even glance in the direction of this Rabbi. Hope is not an option. I should turn back.
But it took everything I had just to get here; just to get close to him.
He was the one they were all talking about, rumours of his miracles filtering into desperate conversations, his name infiltrating the camps of the broken, the isolated, the dispossessed. Our hearts, long closed to the possibility of anything except barren survival, were roused by unfamiliar wonderings. We tried to pretend we weren’t bothered, we didn’t need anyone, we were fine just as we were, but secretly we saw him in our dreams and longed for him to find us.
Jolting back to the present, I remind myself that dreaming is futile. What was I doing here? Was this just another foolish whim? I try to squash the unwelcome bloom of desire deep within me. What if this was like before? Unbidden, the memories return: memories of a still hopeful-me, believing their promises, handing over my money, my dreams, myself, in a desperate search for wholeness. I did what they asked. I followed the steps. I drank their potions.
But it was never enough.
Hope is a dangerous thing.
Self-condemnation taunts me: I’m not good enough to be healed. I’m being punished for my sins. Obviously God knows how bad I am. I deserve to be alone. Maybe I should just accept my fate. Walk away from this man, this crowd, this last chance.
But I’ve got nothing left.
If this doesn’t work, I’m not sure how long I can fend off the flames of despair that persistently lick at the dry pages of my existence.
Hope is fragile. I’m hanging on by a thread.
Someone told me I was plucky, once, which is why I’m here. It’s why I snuck away from the only people who have ever shown me any acceptance: the unclean, the unloved, the other unworthy ones. It’s why I left before the sun rose, walking lonely miles battling with the thoughts in my head and the war in my soul. I guess it’s why I’m standing here, feeling so sullied and unworthy and degraded, amongst these- the normal the righteous, the whole.
But I didn’t walk all this way to turn back now.
Even as fear runs fluid through my veins. I must step forward.
Even if they discern my state, see my shame.
Even if they push me aside, reinforcing my worthlessness.
Even if I am crushed into the ground for attempting such a thing, At least then I’ll know I tried everything.
Even If they stone me to death, what could be worse than what I am living now, anyway?
Hope is persistent. I’d spent days attempting to quieten the nagging conviction that he could make the difference, to no avail. And now, only metres from him, the belief is stronger than ever. I don’t understand it. Belief is something I’d tried to abandon: belief leads to hope, hope leads to vulnerability, vulnerability leads to disappointment. I knew this bitter cycle well.
I’ve tried everything, every route available. I’ve tried to heal myself; I’ve tried to pretend I don’t need healing, but I could never quell my desire to be like everyone else, to know love, to feel clean.
It’s now or never, and I’m not feeling so plucky now. My head screams at me to run, to turn back and slink away. A thousand ‘what-ifs’ taunt me with their consequences. I’m frightened.
Head-bowed, I step forwards, steeling myself with my familiar mantras:
Get it over with quickly.
Don’t make a fuss.
Don’t let anyone know how you feel.
Concentrate on the task at hand.
The jolting of the crowd shakes my lonely core. Physical touch is a sensation long forgotten. Trying not to think about those who crash against me, I must push forward. As for him, the Rabbi, I can’t speak to him, I couldn’t touch his hand, or look in his face, or let him see me. He would see, he would know, and, now I’m here, I’m not sure I could bear his wrath.
His rejection might just smash through the fragile dam holding back the agonising pain of every other rejection, all the loathing and hatred and despair of these twelve long years. I’m frightened that he will see the depths of the blackness in my soul, the clamouring fear and pain and disgust.
The noise frightens me, the pain nags consistently, the pushing and shoving threatens to overwhelm me. But it is just a few steps now, just a little further and then I will be able to touch his cloak. I can’t give up now. I can’t let the terror swamp me. I have to shut it all out, focussing only on touching that hem, that fabric, that life-line. I reach forwards.
I touch the dusty tassles of his cloak, and, in an instant, I am changed! I feel the fabric in my hand and the change in my body. It feels like everything happens in seconds and, at the same time, like all of time stands still. The bleeding stops. I am well. My heart swells but I won’t let myself cry out. I have to shrink away before anyone spots me.
But, to my horror, the Rabbi stops walking. He turns around, sweeping the crowds with his gaze. I look downwards, contempt creeping up the back of my neck, my face flushed with shame. He knows.
He says that power went out of him. There is noise, confusion, but I can’t hide, I’ve been caught. I brace myself, knowing there is no escape. Flinging myself down on the ground, like the nothing I am, I resort to the one option available. Falteringly, I tell the truth, spilling out why I came, what had happened, why I’d done it. Then I wait, face-down, for his rage.
But nothing happens, and I dare to look up then. I look someone in the eyes for the first time in years. The shouting crowds and their loud cries are silenced in those moments, as I look into eyes of pure love, pure compassion, pure mercy.
“Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.”
This time, it’s not a physical sensation that takes my breath away, but the feeling of the self-hate and shame that near-consumed me, uncurling its tight grip from my heart. It is a peace I have never known seeping down into the depth of my soul, washing away the muddy residue of rejection, resentment and pain. It is the warm rays of love spreading into places long deadened by rejection and abandonment. It is hope unfettered, crowding out the decay of years of captivity, speaking of a fresh beginning.
I am astounded, awe-struck. He called me daughter. He accepted me. He made me well.
In that instant, my darkness is dispelled by a deep sense of cleansing and release. I feel whole, I feel renewed, I feel like there are colours in the spectrum I couldn’t see before. I feel shalom.
I know then it was worth the struggle, worth the jostling and uncertainty, it was worth fighting for this. On my knees before him I know he has transformed my broken life into something that reflects glory and light and purity.
Standing to my feet, with my head no longer bowed, I know where I need to go from here, now my shame has been taken away. It’s back to the others, back to those still bent double with despair and contempt. I’m desperate for them to touch his hem, to find that he will stop, pick them up, look them in the eyes and bring about a wholeness they could never have imagined.
Vicki, this is beautiful. You should submit it for publication. Others need to hear your thoughts. Thanks.