The answer to the question is....

My reading today encompassed Numbers 9, and I have been contemplating the Shekinah glory, the cloud that led Israel for 40 years.

Including women and children, there were approximately 2 million people wandering in the desert for 40 years - and all of them had been slaves.  They had the slave mentality - they wanted everything provided for them, they wanted to be protected, they saw themselves as weak.  I often think that is a perfect picture of us as Christians - we have the slave mentality.  It is not for nothing that the Word tells us we were bought out of the slave market.  

We want clear direction from God, none of this trusting in the dark business.  We want to be provided for - our bodies well, our monetary needs taken c/o, protection in our weaknesses.  When we come to a place where we get thirsty, or hurting, or worried about money, we react the same way the Israelites did, altho we seldom put it into words: You brought me here to die of thirst?  Why couldn't You have left me alone?  I was doing well, feeling good, had my plan all set to go and then blam!  You threw a gigantic, overwhelming roadblock in my path?  Why, God? And we whine in our hearts and wonder what the heck is going on - as though God can't hear the murmuring going on in our hearts: I want meat.  I miss the garlic and onions.  This manna stuff is boring.  Same thing every day: manna for breakfast, manna for lunch, manna for dinner.  This stuff gets old....and on we go.

But the Israelites had the visible presence of God with them.

In the hot, dry, parched desert, they had a cloud covering that shielded them from the worst of the heat and burning sunshine.  A cloud big enough to cover 2 million people!  A personal appearance of the God that busted the Egyptians in the chops and opened the gates to set them free.  So out they went, following the 80 year old guy who says he hears God talk to him and give instructions.

This God is a new guy, too - they had gotten used to the Egyptian gods - a god for every animal, a god for your shoes and clothes and to give you money and keep you well and now they have just One God.  He showed them He was stronger than all the Egyptian gods rolled into one, but the only one who actually sees Him is this Moses guy.

So they whine to the Moses guy - every time they stub their toe, it's Moses' fault.  He takes too much on himself.  He doesn't let anyone else say anything - he's the big Kahuna and that's that.  "I'm just as smart as he is" they say to themselves.  "Why do we have to obey him - we can't do all the raucous promiscuous stuff the other gods let us do - if we mess with this One, He kills us outright.  It's Moses' fault.  He's the one that made us leave our safe homes and all that good food - we didn't know how good we had it."

And while we don't go that far, our bottom lip sticks itself out there when things are rough or our feelings are hurt by someone, or we get sick.

And we excuse ourselves, sometimes, because we have to walk by faith, and we don't get to see the One Who bought us.

But lets look at what the Israelites saw:

This ginormous cloud that shielded them - one day, our of the blue, it would rise up and the trumpet would blow, telling them to get ready to move out.

The first time, they had been in their spot by the mountain for a year and one month.  They had settled in: ready water supply, a place for their livestock, the tabernacle all set up,  their tents had accumulated stuff and now they had to pack it all up and get ready to trudge who knew how long before they could rest again.

"What's going to happen to us?  Where will we be going? Will someone attack us?  Granny will have a hard time keeping up.  So will my little ones." and so on, their hearts full of fear and wondering if that "horrible manna" would follow them as well.

And taking it for granted.

And then, at night, the cloud became fire.  The flickering lights were scary.  This was something they understood, the dangers of fire.  Only this fire was alive!

The flame must have been unbelievably high for the last of the 2 million on the fringes of camp to see it.  Just imagining setting up camp for the evening - when did the cloud begin to glow?  to turn from a hazy protector to this dancing, radiant tower of light and flame?  And that flame would call Moses into the tabernacle and when he came out,  he glowed with this same unearthly light.

Creepy.

So I wondered how that would translate to us, in our present state of walking by faith.

We do have a Shekinah glory, only this one is within us.  He shields us from seeking things to satisfy our thirst - and if we come to Him daily, He gives us manna.  We have to come to Him daily - the manna can't be left overnight or it rots and gets stinky.

Boy, is that a picture of backsliding!  When we expect Sunday's spoonful of preaching from the Pastor to last us all week, we can pretty well count on something rotten and stinky showing up in our hearts.  We quietly slip something that is not God onto the throne of our hearts, and think it's ok - and suddenly we find ourselves stuffed with garlic and onions and it's rotting and smelling and we wonder how on earth we ended up this way.

So God lets us stumble on our own for a bit - in a long, dark night where something hard blocks our way and we feel abandoned in the darkness.

If we come to our senses and let Him cover us with His wings, the Shekinah fire, which was there all the time, suddenly warms us and encourages us and helps us to humble ourselves before Him.  We may not have a Moses to blame, but if we don't bow before Him, we'll  begin blaming anything that moves. Our pride of life is always ready, eager and waiting for the chance to jump back on that throne and start ordering us around, and in our panic for something visible to follow, we welcome this chance to devise our own plans for getting out of this mess, and blam!  Another roadblock slams down right in front of our path - again.

We chafe and complain and want this over with - now! And it never occurs to our enslaved mind that perhaps, just perhaps, the hedges that have boxed us in are for our protection.  That plan we devised leads right over a cliff and yet we cannot comprehend why God won't let us implement it.

So we immediately bow before Him, confess and receive forgiveness, and get back on the narrow path immediately, right?

Perhaps you do.  I tend to mutter a bit and ask why and stumble around in the dark for awhile until, in His mercy, God nudges me in the right direction and I have an "Aha!" moment.

Because the simple fact I have come to discover is, we all have that slave mentality in our heart of hearts.

We want things clear, the path clear, the reason for the fly in our ointment clear, the pathway fulfilling and spiced correctly and provided for us with no muss or fuss.  We want to waltz out in front of the unbelievers and have water parted for us right in front of them and find our streets made of gold right now, thank you very much.  And most of all we want to have a simple concise answer to that question.

You know what question.

The one that everyone asks: "Where was God when...?" fill in the blank.

When all along, the answer is "right there".

He is shielding us by day, glowing in our hearts when the night is long and dark and the pain is fierce.

And we don't realize that trusting He is covering and glowing without the seeing is our privilege.  In all of mankind's history, the church is the only entity that has the Person of the Holy Spirit within us, sealing us, walking alongside of us,

And it is that very indwelling that is ready to take us out of slavery.

Because the only thing that enslaves a child of the Living God is the chains we forge ourselves.

Selah.

I love You Papa

My pastor is over in Cambodia, so our asst pastor preached on Wed night.

He shared how, throughout the day, his little 4 yr old granddaughter would come and find him, just to say "I love you Poppa." 

It really made his day.

And an arrow shot right into my heart.

Quietly, the question was asked, "How often do you do that?"

And with my head hanging low, I said, "Sorry Papa."

Because I knew that the answer was "Not very often."

How is that possible?

Here my Papa had given me everything - including eternal life in a kingdom where the streets are made of gold.

Gold!

And I blithely slither on my way, never taking the time to tell Him how much I love Him.

It's not as tho I don't talk to Him - every day I'm in the Word and learning and treasuring His often repeated sentiments of love and caring.  Yet seldom do I think of telling Him what's in my heart.

Since Wednesday I am trying to remember that little thing that means a lot.  I asked the Holy Spirit to remind me about it.

And what an amazing change it's made in my day-to-day doings. 

He is the reason for the season - in whatever season I am in at the moment.  We box that phrase up with the Christmas decorations and feel so righteous when we say it in December.  But He is the reason all year long, not for some misaligned date we've chosen and said, "Here You go, Lord.  This is when You were born." 

I don't know about you, but I didn't even say Happy Birthday on the 25th of Dec. 

Did you?

We talked the talk.  Where did the walk go?

Of course, it wasn't His birthday.  But where does it say we can't tell Him "I love You" because it's not Dec 25th?

And where did all the "Peace on earth, good will to men," and  "hosanna in the highest" go to? 

I want to unpack all those Christmas boxes and praise Him with love every day.  I don't want my heart to get packed away with those boxes and forget He is the reason for my heart beating.  I want Him to hear it, many times a day, from my heart remembering and being grateful and thanking Him for the roof over my head and the pillow I put said head down on to rest.

How hard is it to say those three words, anyway?

We know how it makes a difference in our own lives - how nice it is to hear, even a hurried "love you," as someone goes out the door on an errand.

How much more it must mean to the One Who died for the air we breathe and the food we put in our mouths( after a hurried "thanks for the chow" prayer that can quickly get so routine we don't even hear ourselves say it anymore.)

And all this after I chose "love:" for my one word this year.

Already it's an abysmal failure.

So, Papa, just for the books, I. Love. You.

Forever and and ever and ever and ever.

Amen.

Pondering

The first day of the year.

Always a time for pondering.

What will this year hold?  Good or evil? Pain or joy?  Life or death?

I have reached an age where, even more than the usual, every day is a gift I dare not count on.  I have buried every immediate family member but one - out of the 7 that made my original family circle.

I am the child of 2nd generation immigrants.

My grandparents on both sides immigrated at the turn of the last century.

Their speech was thick with the accents of "the old country."  They spoke of it often - I can hear them still.  The lilt of Swedish is so musical, falling gently on the ears and alive with memories of growing up .

My paternal grandparents lived with us from the time of my 3rd year.  My grandfather was 6 feet tall, and our first meeting began with him snatching me up and tossing me in the air.

To say I was terrified would be an understatement.

I can still see through my 3 yr old eyes, can still feel like I was 20 stories up - and being thrown higher - by a stranger. And one who talked funny at that! Yikes!

Of course, we made friends.  I was only to know him for 2 more years before a stroke stole him away.  but I remember him well, and with affection.

He was a painter.

He painted houses to make ends meet.  And he painted his heart to keep his memories alive.  For my grandfather was a whaler.

This was back when the whales had a chance, and a whale run was 50/50 - the men were at as much of a risk of dying as the whales.

He sailed on windjammers - the many-sailed boats with 2 or 3 masts fitted with 3 large square sails.  Most of their down time was spent repairing said sails.  Or the nets used to catch fresh fish for food.  To the end of his life, his best times were on a charter, doing deep sea fishing and hopefully returning with a gargantuan tuna to feed us for a week.

He would clean the fish, which became my job as I grew up.  I loved to watch him, loved the process from start to finish - first the scaling.  Only when the skin was super smooth did he remove the head just below the gills, remove the tail - and here's where it got really interesting - slit the belly and remove the guts.  I remember asking him "what's that?" over and over - patiently he would point out the liver, the air sacs, the intestines, and, if we were lucky, the roe - the eggs a female carried hidden in her body.  I think this is where I became interested in nursing - by being a 5 yr old fascinated with guts!

My grandmother, 11 years younger than he, was made of spun sugar - and molten steel.  She cooked the tuna as a roast, basting it with butter and love.

She was from Sweden, my grandfather from Norway - at a time when the two countries were not exactly friendly.  Mostly, sons grew up to farm, in both countries, and daughters grew up to be farmer's wives - or nurses. She had 3 sisters, and all grew up to be nurses.  she herself was in nurse training when she left Sweden to marry my grandfather.  Sadly, she never was able to finish her training - in those days, married women did not become nurses.

Her home life had been rough.  She was the Cinderella of her family, with no fairy godmother in sight.  She never figured out why her parents used her as a drudge, to do all the cleaning and cooking.  Part of her task was to make cookies for her 7 siblings - and she was not allowed to sample even one.

So, at the tender age of 16, she and my grandfather had saved enough money for her to join him in America.  She bade her family  far vell (good bye) and set sail on the sister ship to the Lusitania.  The ship would be sunk during WWI, as well as the more famous Lusitania.

She was, of course, in steerage - the below decks accommodations of many immigrants in that day. - small rooms were fitted with 2 bunkbeds, leaving scarcely enough room to move between the beds. When they hit rough seas, people were too sick to run for the primitive WCs, and would simply vomit over the side of their beds. My steely grandmother, not seasick but getting sick on the smell, had brought lemons with her to fight off scurvy.  She took one of her lemons with her to suck on, and snuck out to the deck as the ship tossed and dived with the rough sea swells.  Water would flood the lower decks and she wrapped an arm around the railing and held on - she thought the danger preferable to the smell of the unventilated steerage quarters.

Only she found, as she hung on literally for dear life, that the fancy patrons above her hung onto their rails - and vomited over the side, which the wind blew backward to fall on her and the steerage deck, making it slicker than the blasts of ocean water did.  Yet still, she clung on, sucking her lemon to help control the nausea of being doused repeatedly with vomit.

She said she didn't know how long she'd been there when a crew member noticed her below.  He ran down to her deck and told her she couldn't be there - it was too dangerous, he said, she could be washed overboard.  And while she knew what he said was true, she couldn't stand being shut up with all the vomit in steerage.

But the steward pulled her arm from the railing and forced her back inside.

And she endured.

Eventually her baby sister Judith and husband John, also came to America and settled nearby.

Sweden is big on elves and trolls and folklore.  The deep snow and dark winters leave plenty of time for storytelling while the work is being done. Perhaps they  missed it.

Because one year my uncle John made a little house.

To my 6 yr old eyes it was enchanting.

Log walls with snow on the roof, dainty lace curtains - and through them, hazily visible elves at work could be seen.  Light glowed from the windows, and you could see the elves at their chores - and one was warming his backside at the blazing fire in the fireplace.  It was enthralling.

My 2 brothers (a third would come when I was 9) and 6 boy cousins were all mesmerized, too, and it was rare for the little house to be unattended for any length of time.

I found a photo of it when I was grown up and was shocked to find the walls were corrugated cardboard and the snow was rolled cotton.

I was astonished.

As a child at Christmastime, it had been pure magic. And in my memories, it has lost none of its authenticity - and never shall.

My memories of my grandparents are among my most precious - I look at kids today and feel sad that children are so isolated from the older generations.  I think God designed the nuclear family as a gift - for a child to know how to communicate with older generations, hear stories at their knee, be cared for when the parents are busy elsewhere, know there are open arms to run to, and learn that death eventually claims us all.  It taught me to cherish memories - and thank the God that built me with memories to store and savor.

My grandparents, uncles and aunts, brothers and parents - all are still in my heart.  I expect most of us wish we had paid more attention to them, made more time to listen and visit and love.  I wish I had written down every word, to better remember their wisdom.

But I look at the world today, and I am filled with gratitude.  My King and Lord blessed me with a life surrounded by caring and love - which, I suppose, makes it easier to know the love of my Father in heaven.

So, thank You, Papa. I'm so grateful for the love and the accents and strong faith that is my inheritance - thank you for the parents you gave me, and for their parents - and for Your plan for my life.  Every good gift, and every perfect gift, comes down from the Father of Lights, in Whom is no changeableness or shadow from turning. (James 1:17)

Thank You, Lord, from the bottom of my heart.

Happy New Year

It has officially been 2015 for 2 1/2 hours here. the house is quiet, the neighbors have stopped setting off fireworks ( a tradition here) and the snow flurries have all but disappeared.

The weatherman was wrong, once again.

We'd been promised 3-5 inches but nothing but flurries arrived - and with it, a biting cold air that seemed to turn coats into crepe paper. 

Brrrr.

We usually get snow about once every 5 years, and we're 2 years overdue.

Usually it's not an issue.  But this year, my nephew from California is living with us to go to school - and he has never, in all of his 21 years, seen it snow.  He's been in the snow before, but never while it was actually coming down, and he would love, just once, to see it.

So we will keep praying.

Meanwhile, I have been pondering my word for 2015.

Last year's  was "notice".  It kept my attention - here and there.  I must confess that certain periods of time were consumed by other avenues. 

This year I am praying my one word will be much more prevalent in my thoughts.

Because this year the word is "love"

And hopefully, it is of the agape variety.

I want to let my heart be a conduit for Jesus.  To notice the calculating stare of the person on the corner with the sign begging - and love him anyway.

To take the insults and demeaning comments and let them flow past me, not responding in kind.

To find ways to bless others with words, deeds and prayers.

To keep my heart and hands as open as I can manage. 

To make people feel loved - from my cat to anyone I bump into.

Yesterday, in the grocery store, several people went out of their way to offer assistance, as I was in the putt-putt the store offers to those of us with mobility issues.  One woman offered to help me reach something - out of the blue, because I wasn't even looking at anything - she just saw me and offered.  It left me feeling blessed and not handicapped.

And that's what I want to give others.  I want to be more aware of them and less of me.  I want to bless them.

I want my friends and family to feel loved and cared for and doted on.

When was the last time you doted on anyone?

I've been doting on my nephew today.  He and his friends gathered here tonight - which is a big relief, because here on the outskirts of Vegas, on New Year's Eve, the LVPD says that probably every other car is being driven by someone inebriated.  I really didn't want to think of him out there with his friends.  And so when he asked to have them here, it was a great relief.  Every one of the folks he hangs out with are kind, funny, good-hearted people.

I hope I made them feel welcomed and cared for - before I discreetly absented myself from their get-together. 

(And after I told them if there was no designated driver, they would be spending the night here.)  In capital letters I said, "NO ONE WHO IS EVEN SLIGHTLY IMPAIRED WILL LEAVE THIS HOUSE TONIGHT".

This is my nephew's first NYE of legal drinking age.  He bought some champagne to share with his friends.  He is a responsible guy, as are his friends. 

But sometimes, the law needs to be laid down, just in case.

And that brings me back to my word for the year.

Loving one another is, actually , the only new law that Jesus laid down.  Hopefully I've complied with it - but I know, to my great shame, I've never concentrated on it.

So I want to make 2015 the most loving year of my life heretofore.

In doing so, I want there to be less of me.

Less of me complaining.  Less of me getting irritated.  Totally less of me getting sarcastic, which happens in less than the blink of an eye, especially with store people and/or faulty merchandise.

So you can see why there needs to be less of me.  Cuz the me that's mostly in evidence is the sin-nature me.  And I want to boot her tush outta here.

And in her place,  perhaps, some shining little puddles of God's love flowing through me to bless and comfort  others.

So if anyone has taken the time to read alllll the way thru this entry : May God bless you with a knowledge of His loving kindness and delight in you this day. Not because you earned it, because you couldn't.  Not because you were "good" today because you weren't.

God loves you just because you are you.

The same way He loves me

Just imagine that!  It takes my breath away each time I think of it. The Creator and King of the entire universe actually loves us - He knows us by name, by DNA, by all those besetting sins we wish weren't part of us - He knows about each one - and loves us still.  And that love led Him to the cross - because He'd really rather die than live without us - sinful, surly, complaining ol' us.

And with His help this year (and hopefully every other year as well) I want to love you the exact same way.

Happy New Year!

Merry Christmas

Driving home under an eyelash moon, the streets aglow with twinkling lights, I couldn't help but think about the reason for the season.  Our church's candlelight service tonight was perfect.

To hear again the old old story, to realize anew that He came for all of us.  To know that tiny Baby born - probably in June - came knowing that those tiny baby hands, so captivating, would one day be pierced by a nail, his feet also destroyed and crushed by a mallet driving metal into it.  To have that wee tummy pierced by a spear.  To be nailed, naked, to a piece of the wood He Himself created.  And to be bled by that spear, as befits a Paschal lamb.

Knowingly, a Being so immense He filled the universe, pledged Himself to be forever held captive by a human body.  Think of that.  Never again will His spirit be free to fill all things with Himself.  He will be walled in.  Forever.

And the reason for this?

So that you and I will never be walled in by flames and darkness and suffering - our spirits will expand to fill a body that can walk through walls and will never ache or falter ever again.

It amazes me, over and over, that He loves us so - and chose us before He ever created the first man, knowing that that choice would cost Him everything.

It's hard to imagine myself making such a choice.  Loving THAT much.

But He does.

And what great feat do we have to do to qualify for this greatest of all possible gifts?

One thing.

Say yes.

So, on this day we celebrate this choice becoming flesh and blood and marching inexorably to the cross, if you haven't said it yet, please accept this most magnificent of gifts ever given.

And all you have to do is:

Say yes.

Merry Christmas!

Christmas and CI

It's a few weeks before Christmas, and I'm pondering.

I'm a big fan of Calvin Miller's - the Singer Trilogy and his other, weightier Christian treatises.  In The Singer there are several poignant lines that, as a calligrapher who treasures a tight turn of a phrase, struck me deeply and got grafted into my notebook of quotes for just that reason.  One of his lines in the Nativity portion is "every cradle hangs above an open grave."

Every person has an expiration date already settled, and when that date arrives, he will stand before his Maker, whether he believes there is one or not.

For those of us with CI (chronic illness) that is striking.  CI often feels as tho it's a fatal thing.  It lasts sooooo long, and takes so much away.  At this time of year especially, it steals our energy and robs us of outings and get togethers, shopping and decorating.

But (I love that word) it can only steal what we allow it to steal.  Many of the things we want to do are not necessary things.  It cannot steal our joy.  It cannot steal our relationship with the King of kings.  It cannot steal our giving of love, or our support of others when they are feeling unsure, afraid, or alone.

Jesus learned obedience by the things He suffered.

The Word tells us this, to show us that Jesus knows what we are going thru, what it feels like to suffer in ways we will never have to endure. 

He knows.

I find great comfort in that.

He knows what it feels like to grow up poor in material things, but rich in family.  He knows what it means to walk alone when others walk in pairs.  He knows what it means to feel helpless watching someone we love die - how He must have ached to watch Joseph pass away, when He had all the power there is at His fingertips, and His Father said, "No."

I read something tonight that mentioned there is a big difference between submission to suffering in Jesus and submission to suffering period .  Submitting to suffering alone carries with it a bitterness, an aftertaste, if you will, that lingers in all of our words and attitudes.  Submission to Jesus means we know that His hand was the One Who allowed this.

Joni Earickson Tada described suffering as "He uses what He hates to accomplish the things He loves."

Submission always means we soften our stiff necks; we bow them and bend our knees.

It's not fun.

But our modern world has forgotten what the early Christians knew well - that suffering has a reason, has merit, has the ability to teach in a way nothing else can, simply because it is His inescapable choice for us. When He chooses to allow something uncontrollable in our lives, it is always for our benefit.

Because the simple truth is, nothing in our lives, not a single second, is under our control.  We have no control over our next breath, whether one hair turns white or gray, or whether we wake up in the morning. 

What we do have control over is how we wake up in the morning.

We can praise Him for another day to love in His Name. We can  be obedient to the best of our ability.  And we can praise Him for all the gifts in our lives. 

We can choose whether to be grateful or grumpy.

And in this Season of the Father's wholehearted giving of His only Son - knowing that He would not be received, that He would be stripped naked in front of the whole world, that He would taste spittle, be scourged, have His beard pulled out and His head crushed with thorns - and then after all that, He would be nailed to a cross made of the wood He Himself had created - I think I can manage some praise, some gratitude, some bowed neck and bended knee.

Because He did it for me.

And my paltry bit of chronic illness, carried with as much grace as I can manage each day, is what I do for Him.

A 'Tale of Two Ladies'

Reading in Mark 5 and 6 today.

The story is familiar - especially to me, which I will explain later.  I have been drawn to all the accounts in this as well as the other gospels. But in reading these chapters one after the other today, I noticed something I've never seen before.

The woman who suffered from "the issue of blood" had been afflicted 12 years - the same number of years the young girl had lived. who was to be raised from the dead.

That gave me chills.  Numbers are important in the Word, and I was sure there was something connecting these two that I had not put together yet. This is no simple coincidence.  God's Word is written by design, not some haphazard happening.

So I started meditating on these two stories to see what the Holy Spirit wanted to show me.

For as long as the little girl had been alive, this woman had been bleeding. All her money had been spent on doctors.  The Word mentions no husband or family to nurture her in her isolating sickness.  Was she a  business woman?  Women , as a rule, had no private funds. And in addition to having spent all her money, which must have been substantial to afford doctoring for 12 years, she had spent all that time being unclean.  Being unclean meant that no one could touch her or enter her house without becoming unclean because of her.  In addition, constant bleeding leaves you wobbly and weak from the blood loss.

I say this because I had periodic hemorrhages and severe pain for 21 years. The blood loss was bad enough.  It was the pain I came to fear. I was the only under-age woman in my college with a doctor's script prescribing a shot of brandy every 3or4 hours when the pain  began.  And most likely, knowing what disorders create a medical profile like this (I;m an RN) it was not only isolating, but excruciatingly painful - and it sounds like it was from endometriosis. I especially noted the place where she says, "She felt in herself that she was healed."  Power went out from Jesus, and blasted into her body, going directly to the place where the pain came from, and the bleeding stopped.  Finally.  After 12 years of agony.  Did she have any warning when the pain/bleeding would hit? Endo is notorious for irregular cycles. I know from my own experiences, I never had a clue when it would hit me.  I could be out to dinner with someone, or on a trip, didn't matter. by the end I was bleeding 3 weeks out of four. All of a sudden I would be curled up and trying to hold it together, or, if it was especially bad, I would be on my way to ER and would wind up spending the night at the hospital to get the pain under control. My last year of college I almost bled to death - I was in shock with blood going in each arm and when I moved on the guerney, a waterfall of blood splashed over to the ground. When I found this account of healing it touched my heart deeply.  I  knew this woman -  well.  It bolstered my faith enormously.

What I know for certain is, no matter how much pain she was in on this particular day, she was determined.

To enter a crowd and struggle, weak and shaky from blood loss, to catch up with this Man that folks said healed people, speaks of a finality of desperation. He could heal her.  She knew it.  All she had to do was touch the fringe of His garment.  Can't you hear her, saying this over and over and over and over to keep herself going?  "All I have to do is touch the the fringe.  I just have to get close enough to touch it, that's all.  Just a little closer...I can do this....just a little more..."

Meanwhile, Jairus, the head of the synagogue, had come and asked Jesus to heal his daughter; she was on the verge of death.  It was urgent! He must have been screaming inside - "hurry UP!!! Just hurry UP!!"

They were moving right along when, suddenly, impossibly, it happened.

After struggling and hoping and fighting to get near, she touched Him.

KA-BLAM!!!

Power blasted thru her, a warm tingling of a fire that shot down her arm to THE spot she knew so very well. She felt in herself, it was over. And I'd be willing to bet you that Jesus replaced the blood she had lost in that moment also. The pain was gone.  The bleeding had stopped. She felt energized, her spirits lifted, SHE WAS WHOLE!

Jesus stopped in His tracks.  He turned.

And then He spoke."Who touched Me?"

His disciples shot Him a look of astonishment.

Then they looked at each other.  It seemed like a million people surrounded them, pushing, jostling, bumping.  "Who touched Me?" He's got to be kidding! EVERYBODY touched Him!

As for her, she knew she'd been caught in the act. She had stolen this healing. She, too, froze, trembling, knowing of a certainty, that if He could tell she'd stolen that power, then He could easily figure out it was her.  The crowd had grown silent, curious. No one was moving.

He asked again, "Who touched Me?" Strong. Commanding. He was dead serious.

The synagogue ruler was there, staring. Tapping his foot.  His daughter was dying!  They had no time for this!

With her heart beating out of her chest, on trembling legs she tottered forward, eyes cast downward as the men began to part, allowing her access to the Healer.  She fell to the ground in front of Him, and sobbed out her story. She expected rage, she expected Him to be indignant.

Instead, she got love.

"Your faith has saved you, My daughter, Go in peace."

And that was all.

No recriminations, no casting of stones, no sarcastic comments. Just the tenderly spoken words: "go in peace."

While all this was transpiring, Jairus was getting frantic.  His need was urgent.  His daughter was beyond sick.  She was DYING for pete's sake! Dying! We need to hurry!

At that moment, one of his servants came to him and said, "Don't bother the Master anymore. She is dead.".

Dead.

 The very word was fraught with heaviness.  It was over.  His only child, his light, his life, over.

He stumbled, put his hand to his face, turned to look at Jesus, dazed, his eyes filling with the pain of grief.

Jesus speared him with a glance. "Don't be afraid.  Just believe"

And taking with Him the top three - Peter James and John -  they proceed to his house .

I find this so intriguing.

With God's fingertip-control of time, the news of her death doesn't come until after he sees Jesus heal someone, right in front of him, close up and personal.That picture is fresh in his mind.  He had just seen the miraculous power operating in Jesus.

And the key was faith. Trust. Belief.

But his daughter!   She was dead they said.  Dead.

Jairus is trying so hard.  Trying to trust. Trying to believe.

Trying not to panic and crumple, wailing aloud, to the ground.

And all he can think is, my daughter!  My daughter! My daughter!

As they arrive, they hear the loud groans and shrieks of pain from the professional mourners. Jesus says to them "she is not dead, she is sleeping."

Their "sorrow" turned to laughter and sarcasm.  They were experts in dead.  They knew what "dead" looked like.  And they had seen dead lying in a bed in this house.

Stop for a moment and think about the other apostles.  Jesus takes "His guys" and goes off to perform some kind of miracle, and he always takes Peter, James and John. He does, I'm sure, tell them what happened afterwards, but it seems none of the rest of the guys ever get a turn.

Especially Judas.

Is this one of the things that so poisoned his heart that he grabs his chance to betray with both hands?

Just a thought.


So Jesus takes mama, papa, and the three and goes into the house. He tells them again not to be afraid, and to believe. Then He walks over to her bed.

We are not told what it was that she died from.  Most diseases aside from snakebite take a long time to kill. Perhaps measles. Mumps. Chicken pox or polio, diptheria, meningitis - there were so many things that killed in their time, as in ours.

There are few things that kill quickly. So she probably hadn't eaten in awhile, probably ran a high fever, tossed and turned and perhaps her hair was still flayed all over the place.

Jesus is looking tenderly at the child His Father placed in this family,  He smoothed back some hair from her face, and gently said to her "Talitha Koumi" Little girl, I say to thee arise."

She starts to blink her eyes. Her parents gasp.  All eyes are on the face of their little girl.

Her color changes. Blue lips and white face becomes pink lips and rosy cheeks. She sits up and her family is struck dumb, frozen in place with wonder.

Peter James and John are flies on the wall - they are stunned and have let fly a few gasps themselves. Wow.  Jesus really does have power. Unimagineable power.  And they begin to ask themselves, for the 100th time, "Who is this Guy??"

Into the moment of silence Jesus says, dryly, "Soooooooo one of you guys want to feed her?"

I love His wit. It's like when He raised Lazarus.  Everyone was stunned into silence and here is a bound Lazarus hobbling out of the tomb and Jesus says"ummmm you want to untie him and let him go?"

Chaos! Bedlam!

Parents rushing to her, calling for servants - "She's alive.  Alive!!  Get her some food, some water!  Hurry!  She's well!  She is well!!"

The Word doesn't describe this moment.  But in my heart, I know that Papa fell to his knees before Jesus,  overcome with gratitude and wonder and the solace a parent's heart experiences when his worst fear has, in fact, come to bear  - and then - simply undone.

And looking into the eyes of Jesus, I see such joy, such delight in conquering that last enemy, the one that will someday be placed under His feet.

Two women.  One grown, one not so grown.

Two lives.  One little girl, seemingly lost already and in a hopeless state.  The other was a grown woman, alive, and yet everything that made life life had been lost, inch by inch, who faced only a hopeless gray expanse of time until it was all, finally, over.

And what was it that bound these two apparently unrelated miracles together?

I finally saw it.

There wasn't just one person raised from the dead that day.

There were two.