Sometimes, people of faith like to refer to themselves or to others who hold the “right” kind of faith as believers.  This descriptor seems inadequate.  I don’t feel comfortable or right when I try it on.  But this story of faith grabs me.  It could be my story.

A sea of people
stood between
me
and
the miraculous
healer.

Everyone wanting
a glimpse,
a touch,
just to be seen
by him.

The crowds,
impenetrable.
I want to reach him.
Maybe just a touch of his clothes.
But what if
I reach him
and nothing happens?
Just the same emptiness,
sickness,
loneliness,
hopelessness.

I start to turn away,
but something inside
stops me.

I have nothing left in this world,
nothing left in my soul.
If I don’t reach him,
I think I will die. 

Desperation brought me this far.
Desperation propels me forward.
Every ounce of strength that is in me
moves me toward him.
Weaving my way through the crowd,
slipping past the bigger and the stronger.
Their longing can’t match mine.

Who is he?
I want to see for myself.
Are the stories true?
I need to find out for myself.

Almost.
Just a little closer.
I reach out with my hand
and touch the hem of his robe.
No one will ever notice, will they?

          *   *   *   *

He said my faith healed me.
What is this faith?
I thought God had left me.
But when I touched that hem,
something like lightning flowed
through me
my heart swelled to near bursting,
burning inside of me.

Is that faith?
I didn’t manufacture
that power.

Or is faith in the
desperate seeking?
Searching as if my life
depended on finding God
in the hands of the
gentle
miraculous
healer.

© J.L. Sanborn, 2015.

 

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