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Unclean
An Easter Story, 2025

At first, it was as the first two children I birthed. But the third, my flow would not stop.

My midwife told me I was doing too much.
How could I do too much, when all I did was lie there?
There were days when my life’s blood would not flow so heavy, giving a false hope it was stopping.
But it would renew its flow. 
My energy flowed from me.

I could do nothing.
Just rising in the morning exhausted me. 
I pushed through making flatbread and cooking beans. I’d watch the children while resting on my pallet.
Every task required so much energy to push through it.
I craved beets and greens. 
But after picking and preparing them, I’d be too exhausted to eat them.
Chewing took so much energy.

Ezra, my husband, is a problem-solver.

That’s why the city comes to him with its problems.
He can isolate the cause, correct it and execute justice.
But he could not solve my problem.
I frustrated him.
He looked at me with pity, but of course, could not touch me, or be made unclean. 
Some believed, if he did touch me, he would be made impotent. 
Because he was a respected leader in the community, he must watch what he did, for he was watched by others.

He found a nursemaid to feed the baby and care for the children, for I did not have strength to make milk nor watch them.

She had recently lost her own child and cared for mine as if they were hers. 
It was hard to watch. But I had no energy for regrets or wishes.

On one surge of energy, I craved dark leafy tops.
My husband found me in the garden, unable to return to the house. 
He shook his head. “You could not ask me to get them for you?”
He carried me back inside the house and became unclean.
I couldn’t stay awake long enough to thank him. 
When I woke, I had been returned to my separate pallet by the fire.
The fire burned brightly. 
I hated to think what it would take to gather the sticks again to keep it going.
I was always cold. 
My flesh turned pale.

The Law is hard.

I must not bleed for seven days to be clean enough to offer a sacrifice.
That did not happen.
I am constantly unclean.
Though I have done nothing.
I did not touch the dead.
Nor eat any forbidden thing.
I did not do anything to make me so despised.
But no one can touch me and remain clean for the Sabbath.
I no longer attend the synagogue, not even to stand outside to hear the reading of the Law. It is as if I’m screaming, “UNCLEAN!”
Nor I could hug my children. That was the hardest. Little ones need cuddled by their mother. I could not even do that.
I am an outcast.

After several months, Ezra told me, “I’m taking you to a physician.” 

We live in Dan, a morning journey from Caesarea Philippi. Dan grew from a trade roads coming from the western Phoenician ports of Tyre and Damascus. Ezra and I had worked together trading goods from these distant places. 
People always wanted what others had. 
My intuition to select what people wanted, coupled with Ezra’s negotiating skills, had expanded his business greatly. 

Dan lies in the foothills of Mount Hermon, the tallest mountain in Israel, a two-day journey north of the Sea of Galilee. Mount Hermon’s melting snow provides the largest source for the Jordan River.
The mountains overlook the Jordan River Valley, rich in vegetation due to the water source.
Mount Hermon was always considered a sacred mountain.

In its shadow lies Caesarea Philippi, a city with a history.
Prior to our invasion, the Canaanites worshipped the god Pan, for there lies a cave with a bottomless pit.

No man has made a rope long enough to find its bottom. 
Some believe it’s the Gate to Hades where all fallen angels will be cast.
Jeroboam, our first king of northern Israel, led our people into idolatry sacrificing on its peak.
It was here, too, where the Greeks received revelations from the god Pan. Alexander the Great often came to rest. He built a sanctuary for the gods. 
Many mysteries, including unidentified noises in the nearby forests, were attributed to Pan.

After the Greeks, the Romans, too, worshipped here. Herod the Great built an elaborate temple surrounding the cave’s opening; its floors were white marble! 
When he died, Philippi, his son and tetrarch, acquired it. He renamed the city to honor Caesar and himself. The older residents refuse to call it “Caesarea Philippi” but use its older name “Paneas.” The Romans do not like it, but they cannot change the people just by changing the name of their city.

With such history, many believe the waters that flow from this cave, feeding the Jordan River, have healing powers. 
In addition, many physicians reside in Caesarea Philippi.
But all this history is too much for me to think about. 
Most of the time, my thoughts swim inside my head like rainless clouds, drifting but not supplying any need.

But Ezra has taken inside his head these physicians can cure me. 
I hope he will not be disappointed.

The trip was taxing, though it was just a half day’s journey. The sun’s rays against my cheek warmed me, but the constant winds made trudging up the mountains exhausting. I required many rests. I frustrated Ezra who was used to getting things done quickly.

When we reached Caesarea Philippi, Ezra inquired at the city center where we’d find a physician. 
He was directed to one. We proceeded to his house.
This doctor had strong Greek training, for he immediately recommended relieving my blood using leeches.
The slimy, squishy creatures were small and skinny. 
The doctor placed them all over my body. 
I tried not look at them.
But could not help but watch these slimy things pierce my flesh and suck. Within hours they had grown. And I, felt light-headed and weak.
I could have told the doctor losing my blood made me weak. 
How could feeding these wretched things make me stronger?

But who had energy to argue?
After the process, I could not even stand. 
Ezra argued about paying for a service that did not work.
The doctor assured us, I would feel strong the following day.
It did not.

Ezra searched for another doctor.
He and this doctor talked within my hearing, as if I did not exist.
“How long has she been like this?”
“Since our last child, three months ago.”
Had it been three months? How did I lose track of time?
“The baby’s fine?”
My husband again shrugged. “I hired a nursemaid.”
It seemed strange to be talked about me, as if I was not there. But in many ways, I was not.

The doctor nodded and left the room. 
When he returned, he instructed my husband. “Give her this, three times a day.”
The return trip home was a blur to me, since I was weaker. Though a trial for my husband, who must wait for me.
At home, Ezra dropped the herbs in my mouth, of course without touching me.
They were bitter and dried my mouth. 
I drank and drank and drank, but could not remove its taste nor quench my thirst.

After a week of the herb, I stopped bleeding for a day.
We both rejoiced. 
Though I still could not touch Ezra, not even to hold his hand. 
Mine felt cold. Empty. Lifeless.
After several days, I felt hope and even my strength returning.
But then my bleeding resumed.
My husband threw the rest of the herb in the fire.
We were both finished with false hopes.

After many months, Ezra came home from work excited to share his decision: He would take me to Gilead.
I was too tired to think. “Why?”
“That’s where the balm of Gilead lies.”
Yes, where our people go for rest.
That would be our answer.
The balm of Gilead, prized for the sticky buds it produced, enabled healing tinctures, infusions, salves and balms.
We made the journey.

One doctor gave me the life changing salve. It helped wounds, repaired broken skin, frost bite and sunburn, relieved congestion—the miracle cure.
But the miracle cure made me worse.
I did not have energy to be angry. But Ezra was!
The doctor tried an infusion.
I felt my life pour out of me.

My husband, desperate for a cure, consulted other doctors.
I was too tired to care. 
But when they huddled away from me, shaking their heads, I wept.
There was no miracle cure for me.
We had spent close to six months here. 
This had been my hope.
And Ezra’s last attempt.

My husband made plans to return home, I sensed the loss and his distance.
My mind seemed constantly spinning, flighty, never able to rest on one thought—constantly floating.

After returning home, there seemed a few days when I was given a reprieve, then it would resume.
Otherwise, how could my body continue without blood? 
But the days weren’t enough to regain strength.
Nor were they enough to call me clean and give hope of being cured.

I felt Ezra distancing himself from me.
He no longer spoke to me; walking around me, as if I did not exist.
I caused more problems by my presence.
I remained a problem he could not solve, a constant reminder of his inability to fix me.
Failed doctors had depleted our resources.
My load had to be carried by someone else.

One day when he returned from work, I sensed a difference in him.
A resolution.

I smiled, thinking he had found help.
Instead when he spoke to me, he did not look at me.
Getting my attention was hard. My mind didn’t want to stay here.
He tapped me with a stick. Like some animal herded into its pen. 
What else could he do? 
If he touched me, he could not attend the synagogue on the Sabbath.
I had lost track of the number of Sabbaths I had not heard the Law read.
He brought my boys to me. But instructed them not to touch me.
I wanted to wrap my arms around them all and squeeze them. But I could not. All I could do was try to smile. But that took too much energy.
My baby was walking!
My other boys stared, not knowing what to do in my presence. 
My baby turned from me and cried.
The nursemaid rushed into the room, comforted him and took them all into another room.

Hot tears fell down my face. I had no strength to wipe them away. 
My children were afraid of me. 
It was the last time I saw my children.

Ezra spoke, his voice distant, his gaze looked passed me. “I have papers for you.”
It was his acknowledgement of defeat. 
My sudden intact of breath was the only response I could make. My mind could not grasp. Papers? That would only mean one thing—divorce.
My father had died. There were no brothers with whom I could live.
I would be without a home.
I did not try to look him in the eye. What would I see—pity? Anger? I did not cause this!  
My tears were overflowing now.
He was still talking, patronizing me now. “Nia, your dowry is included. It will be enough for you to live.”
Live! I did not want to live by myself, away from my sons and family!
This is where I belonged!
But I could not speak—it took too much energy.
My thoughts couldn’t comprehend my loss. My mind floated.

Reality came in pieces. 
His distance. 
His frustration.
His final gesture of kindness.
His good-bye.
He pressed the papers into my hand and somehow ushered me out of his house—without touching me. 
Of course, no one wanted to be unclean.
Did he think, I wanted to be?
Hadn’t he helped to make me unclean? 
I kept my thoughts, random as they were, to myself.

It was like being alive during my own viewing, before being placed in the grave. 
Only I wasn’t dead!

My thoughts swirled, struggling to find connection. 
I stumbled down the city street, not knowing where to go.
I walked through the city gate and stopped at the well and drank.
I rose, walked under a tree and fell. And slept.
I slept out of exhaustion.

When I awoke, I had to remember where I was.
Had it been a nightmare?
I heard voices.
Women at the well were getting their water.
They did not try to whisper, but spoke so I heard, yet not to me.
“She does nothing for her family. Her poor husband has spent much trying to find a cure. She remains ‘unclean.’”

Their looks, not of pity, but of accusation, pierced me.

Brushing my hand across my cloak, I heard a rattle. I remembered the papers Ezra had given me. This was no dream.
I fingered the scroll. I could not read it. But I rememebered his words. 
He had returned my dowry, the condition of the divorce.
It would be enough for me to live. 
I looked back at the city of Dan. The city I knew.
I watched the women return to the city with their full water pots.
They returned clean. 
It seemed a paradox how someone with such a hateful mouth could be clean, yet I, remained unclean for doing what any wife should do—give birth to a child.
I wondered at this Law.
This city would never accept me. 
The people had condemned me as unclean.
The city with too many memories that would haunt me.

I looked to the north, Caesarea Philippi. It was a city of foreigners who knew nothing of being unclean.
I stood on wobbly legs to walk to my new home.
It did not matter how long it took, nor what I did when I arrived. 
Though not safe for women to walk alone, especially with the Roman soldiers in force in the city and on the roads, in my dazed state, I did not consider safety. And in my dazed state, God protected me.

It is hard to remember a pleasant past, when all I have now is suffering. Suffering dims the past and distorts any hope in the future.

When our people were in bondage in Egypt, making bricks out of straw, the day’s drudgery allowed no hope for another day.
Yet they suffered together as one.
They had each other.
There was comfort in suffering together.

What if one suffers alone?
Is there comfort?
I can find none.

I can relate to Naomi. Remember her?
She was descendant to our great King David.
But not all went well for her.
During a famine, she moved to a foreign land.
[Foreigners don’t accept God’s people.
They spurn them.
I know she was spurned, like I am in this city. Though Caesarea Philippi grew from outsiders, they still disdain the Jew who should be the owner here.]

There in a foreign land, Naomi’s husband and two sons died.
She was alone.
I, too, have lost my husband, though not by death. 
I do not blame him for the divorce.
I could never give him another child.
Nor even touch him.
But taking my children away too—because I am unclean!
I cannot watch them grow.
Torn from me before they even knew me.
The loss was more than my heart could take.
But it was only the first things ripped from me.
Why did my uncleanness cling to me?

The drudgery of every task—I must force myself to function. 
Drink. Drink. 

The stream that runs from the cave is cold.
But no miraculous healing comes from it.
Eat. Forage for herbs. Chew. The worst of it was chewing. How hard it was to eat.
And gather firewood.
The foliage is full at the base of Mount Hermon. 
But its cold nights penetrate the bones where no fire is enough.

Being alone all the time, yet living within a crowd, brings loneliness, deserted, the label “Unclean” hovers me as I buy bread.

Years merge into another, as fog melts into the earth and is no more.
I forget to listen to others, for they never talk to me.
Even those in the market talk only enough to bring the exchange of money.
I, alone, talk to myself.
And it does not speak well of me.

The city seems astir about something.
I feel it as I went to market.
The market vendor is more talkative today. “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“The Nazarene, Jesus, attended a wedding at Cana.”
My mind started to shut out the rest; it was too much to concentrate. I did not need to hear the city gossip.
“He turned water into wine.”
The thought plagued me as I purchased bread.

I’d been content with just bread, but now my mind spun with the idea of wine.
I turned back and purchased wine to drink with my bread—a luxury, but one I’d enjoy.
I portioned it out, allowing a few sips sparingly. It settled my discontent. 
Doesn’t take much to bring contentment, when I was satisfied with so little to start.

Another time, when I ventured to the market, the vendor spoke again of this Jesus. “A centurion’s servant was sick and asked Jesus to heal him.”
My interest perked. Usually a servant wasn’t worth considering. This man was concerned for his servant’s health. A master could leave a slave die and replace him. 
He treated his servant better than some husbands I know. 

I should not think that—Ezra did try. 
Maybe the centurion had more success with Jesus than we’d had with untold doctors. “What happened?”

The woman leaned forward and lowered her voice, “Jesus praised the centurion’s faith and the servant was healed without Him even going to see him!”
Maybe Jesus was worth asking. “Where was this?” 
“Capernaum. But that isn’t all.” She paused making sure I was listening.
“In Nain, a widow lost her son. They were taking him to the tombs.

Jesus stopped the procession and raised the son from the dead!”
My legs gave way beneath me and I fell.
The woman leaned forward to catch me.
I screamed, “Don’t touch me!”
She withdrew, her eyes wide by my reaction.
“I’m sorry. I am not well, you see.”
Her eyes took an understanding look and she retreated as if I were a leper. 
I didn’t want to leave yet. I wanted so much to be accepted. “May I have some raisins too?  They look so good.”
She measured out some and dropped them before putting them in my hand.
I accepted the raisins wrapped in leaves and held out the coins for payment.
She didn’t extend her hand for the money.
I put the coins on the table and turned away without knowing whether she touched them. 
It took a lot out of me to confess, even after all these years, I was “unclean.”
It was easier just to stay hidden and withdrawn and silent.

I could not forget what I had heard. I thought much of this Jesus who could heal with just His word, and raise a boy from death by His touch. His touch—Jesus touched someone unclean—a dead person. He must have cleaning, not just healing in His touch. He could make me clean. I knew it.
I nibbled my bread and took a few raisins, chewing slowly. My food would have to last a long time for the journey I was to take.


When I reached Bethsaida, my bread and raisins were long gone. I stopped at a market for more, dates too. 
The vendor there was talkative. “That Jesus, you hear about him?”
I nodded, leaning forward to grasp every word.
She chewed a bit of the date in her mouth and swallowed, the delay hard for me to wait, “He healed a naked demoniac who lived among the tombs.”

“What did Jesus do to cure him?” I was anxious to know what must I do to be healed by Him.
The vendor continued, “Just commanded the spirits to leave him.”
Did it matter how long a person was unclean? I asked hesitantly, “How long was this man controlled by the spirits?”
The woman was excited to share any news, “They say, ‘a long time.’” She leaned forward to whisper, “The spirits asked Jesus not to cast them in the abyss. So Jesus made the spirits enter a herd of pigs.”
I nodded. We didn’t need any more spirits cast in our cave at Caesarea Philippi, there was enough evil in the city. 
The woman lowered her voice, as if the spirits would be angered by her story, “The herd of pigs ran over the cliff and crashed into the sea.”

I shook my head. I was still thinking of the unclean man made clean.

I turned away with my purchase of bread, raisins and dates, then turned back at a new thought, Where would Jews be herding unclean pigs? “Where was this?”
The woman raised her eyebrows, “Gadarenes.” She studied me a moment. “But the town people didn’t allow Jesus to stay. They made sure he left—by boat to the other side.” 
I almost forgot to get my change. Why would anyone chase away someone who could free this man?
The woman saw my expression, “Those pigs were worth a lot of money.”
I bit my tongue before I said, “But the man wasn’t valuable?” 
I knew by experience an unclean person might as well be dead. We are society’s discards. Unwanted. Less valuable than a herd of pigs.
I didn’t have energy to think much more about that.
If Jesus could heal this man who was unclean for so long, could He heal me?
I almost ran from the city as I moved south to find Jesus.

As I walked, for I could not run for long, I wondered.
How would I know who He was? What if I missed him?
I smiled. I would know.
I’d follow the crowds.
What about my uncleanness?
He would take care of all that.
My only thought was to get to Jesus.

After many days, I reached the Sea of Galilee.
I followed the sea coast for there were many towns there.
Fish was in abundance, of which, I enjoyed with the flatbread I purchased. 
With each inlet, I searched for a crowd. It felt awkward looking for a crowd, for so long I had avoided anyone.
Once, I saw a group, hurried, not wanting to be left out, only to find just fishermen returning from fishing.
I kept going.

I surprised myself at my drive. I had never pursued something like this since…as I thought, I never have been as desperate as this to be healed. This renewed hope—of seeing Jesus—enabled me to keep going.
I saw a crowd. 
They waited for a boat to make its way to the shore.
I hurried. 
A man got out with others, a motley group, one well dressed, others like fishermen. 

An official from the synagogue arrived out of breath. He fell at one of the man’s feet and begged him to come, heal his dying daughter.

I sighed. I had found Jesus.
My heart tightened; my breath quickened. Hope stirred. 
I must keep my courage. 
I stepped forward.
The crowds pressed tight.
I squeezed through. I was used to not being seen. People look at the unclean as if they are not there. I had gotten used to feeling invisible.
My strength wasn’t much. I had traveled far over the past few weeks.
I had rehearsed what I would say, but when I got close enough to speak, I could not. He was looking at the man whose daughter was sick. I could not get his attention.
He started walking away.
I could not follow him. My strength was gone. I could barely stand now.
I grabbed his cloak.

The first human touch in so long. How long? Had it been twelve years? A lifetime to me. 
I felt His warmth through the cloak. His strength. His power.
It pulsated through my body, stopping my flow. 
My legs felt His power enabling me to stand. I was healed!

Jesus turned, “Who touched Me?”
I shook, for I knew I had received healing. But I also knew I was condemned for touching another while unclean. 
I stepped backward, trying to melt into the crowd, like some wayward child, hoping not to be seen.

His disciples rebuked him, “Master, the people crowd and press in on You.”
I sighed, holding my breath, hoping my invisibility would hold.
Jesus persisted, “Someone did touch Me, for power has gone out of Me.”
I had not escaped notice. 
Me, who had been overlooked, unnoticed, not spoken to for years, must step forward and acknowledge my uncleanness. I fell at his feet. “Master, I have been bleeding for 12 years. Doctors could not heal, but made me worse. I have lost all, but it remains, but I knew, if I could touch your hem, I’d be made whole. When I did, I could feel the flow stop, my strength returned.”
I felt His gaze upon me as I lay at his feet. 
“Daughter,”

Daughter? I had not been called anything endearing for years.
By calling me “Daughter”…my blood may have stopped, but my tears were flowing.
I looked up into His face. 
His eyes poured out love. 
His face reflected peace and kindness.
“Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace.”
I lay there at His feet amazed. I was well. No longer unclean. No longer unable to be touched by another, no longer isolated, weak and trembling. I was whole. 
How does one merely survive for so long then suddenly be given life? 
I laughed. When had I laughed last? Not in 12 years. 
I cried.
The crowds stepped away from me as if I was now unclean.
I was not. I was “CLEAN.” 
This man Jesus had made me whole—clean.
Jesus had given back my life!

A messenger came for the temple official, “Bother the Teacher no more, your daughter is dead.”
The official gasped and began crying.
Jesus responded, “Do not be afraid, only believe. She will be made well.”
I followed him. For I would follow Him with my life.
When we reached the man’s house, Jesus allowed only his disciples and the child’s parents into the house with Him.

Quite a crowd had gathered to mourn her death.
As Jesus entered the house, He told those gathered, “Stop weeping, for she has not died, but sleeps.”
But they laughed at Him.
I wanted to spit in their faces and yell at them! They did not know Who was in their presence.

It was while He was inside, I realized my life had changed. 
What should I do after just surviving for 12 years?
My life had been on hold, stuck, unable to feel, just doing what was necessary. I no longer had to survive, forcing myself to do the next things because my energy was gone. 
I had energy for living. For things besides getting the next meal and making sure I was warm.
I could be the mother I had started to be.
Jesus had told me, “Go in peace.”
Where was I to go—but home.
Home to my family, to my boys, to Ezra. 
First thing I’d do was to hug my boys.
I couldn’t wait to see Ezra. Wouldn’t he be pleased!


I walked back to Dan.
It took several days, but in that time, instead of a fog of non-thinking, I planned, anticipating my family’s reception.
My boys would be older—12 years older.
Would they remember me?
Would I recognize them?
I paused as I walked when I thought of Ezra: strong, capable, conscious of my needs, listening—especially when I told what would sell well at our store! I smiled. I saw his smile.
I started walking again, this time with greater joy and a spark to my step. I skipped.
I laughed. I hadn’t laughed in 12 years. There had been nothing to laugh at. Nor energy to try.
But now?
Now, my future held hope.
I could dream again. I laughed out of sheer joy of being able to laugh.

As I approached Dan, my steps slowed. My zeal for coming, being tempered with the reality that it had been 12 years.

So much can change…yet this was family…
I approached my house with hesitant steps, not losing my courage yet.
I stood across the street from its courtyard. A door slammed and a boy walked down the street. He had Ezra’s jawline, but his hair color was mine. I gasped. My chest tightened. I could not breath. So many years, I had lost. He was my youngest. He’d be old enough to learn the Law. He must be heading toward the scribe’s house. So many things flashed before my mind. So many years I had missed of his life. It took me several moments to gain my courage to continue.

I swallowed and stepped inside the courtyard, glancing at the fig tree we had planted. It now held fruit. Yes, it had been years. Many things change. I almost lost courage to continue, but this was my only family. This was all I knew.

The door opened again. One of the city’s councilman stepped out. It took me a moment to recognize Ezra. He was no longer a merchant, but had become a city leader. 
I sucked in my breath, proud of his accomplishment. 
I stepped out of the shadows in front of him.
He side-stepped me, to walk around me, shaking his hand, “You don’t belong here. Stay out.”
I stopped him with a word, “Ezra, it’s me.”

Ezra stopped and stared.
The moment was long, as if he had to remember.
I held my breath. How could he not know me?
“Nia? Is that you?”
I smiled, for the moment had been loaded with many uncertainties. “It is.”
He stepped back, perhaps out of habit for my “unclean” state, or perhaps to catch his balance.
“I am clean.”
His eyes took a moment to register. He nodded, but did not smile.
I didn’t know how to register his reaction. “I am back.”
When he still did not speak. I filled in the awkward silence. This wasn’t how I had pictured my reception. Why didn’t he see? “To be the mother to our boys.” I added lamely, as if he needed me to explain, “And help you with your store.”
Ezra shook his head. “Nia, you surprised me.”
I hastily started to share plans I had made as I traveled back to Dan, “Of course, the boys will take a while to adjust; I understand…”

“Nia,” Ezra found his tongue. “There’s no going back. The boys don’t know you. I’m established without you. You’re not needed here.”
I raised my voice and stepped toward him, “What about the six years I gave you, working beside you and helping you succeed? Or the three boys I birthed for you—was that not needed either? Did you think I would go off and die—conveniently out of your way?” As the thought flew out of my mouth, the reality of its truth hit me. That’s exactly what he had thought.
“Nia—"

At that moment, a door slammed and a woman hurried to Ezra. “You forgot….” She saw me and stood beside Ezra who hugged her possessively. Public display of affection was prohibited by the Law.
My mouth dropped open. This was the nursemaid he hired when I could not care for my baby and children!

She eyed me as if she had won.
I returned her gaze; I had returned healed to my family.
Ezra coughed, “Nia, this is my wife Bethany. Bethany this is Nia.”
“Wife?” I thought; I swallowed back tears.
He had cast me out as a problem unsolved, and found another who could be solved? So that was how it was. I nodded.
Bethany gave him his lunch.
Ezra thanked her, and nodded to me in dismissal. “Nia, I’m glad you’re healed.”
I nodded, but my tongue refused to spew all the thoughts that wanted to pour out of my mouth—how could I have a life without my family—the family I thought would have missed me?
How could I pick up the pieces of what a 12-year disease did to me, yet my own family didn’t feel?
How could I just walk away and be whole?

I watched him walk down the street.

When he was out of sight, Bethany interrupted my thoughts, “Are you staying long in our city?”
I hadn’t realized she was still standing there. I looked again where Ezra had disappeared, then back at her. With all the strength I could muster, holding back my tears, I responded, “Doesn’t look like I need to.”
She nodded and returned to the house.
I stared at that closed door a long time. The door to my home. Where my children were born. 

Memories of years ago. 
Like an eternity ago.
And just like eternity, untouchable.

I didn’t realize I’d been waiting a long time for this moment, until now. My energy hadn’t allowed me to cry for my loss, maybe because I didn’t realize it was gone forever—until now.
Would I see my other boys?
I felt like the demon possessed man. 
He was made whole.
But instead of praising God for his healing, the townspeople forced Jesus to leave and the man to be silent.
His healing made them uncomfortable, angry, threatened.
And the crowd at the raising of that little girl? They laughed at Jesus when He told them she merely sleeps.
Come to think of it, the crowd at my healing looked with curiosity, not praise.
My own family was hindered by it. 
It was only me, whose life was changed.
I hadn’t expected my healing would be sad.
I went to the well outside the city and considered what I must do next.
First, I must stop crying.

I didn’t realize how many tears a person could hold!
But when I finished, I knew what I must do.
Find Jesus.
He had solved my first problem.
He had told me, ‘Go in peace.’
I must ask Him how to have peace when anger and hurt fill my heart.

It wouldn’t be hard to find Jesus—the hard part would be to get close enough to speak to Him—again.
But I must find a way.
It was days before I heard news telling where He was. 
Seemed He could disappear.
As I searched for Him, I found a group of women following Him. 
 

One woman, Mary, called Magdalene, shared her story how she was once demon possessed and used by men. Now she followed Him devotedly.
Another Mary, was Jesus’s mother. She rarely spoke, but one could tell she processed everything said. She shared how angels told she would conceive a child with God. That would have caused her to be an outcast in her village—as a mother without a husband. 
I believed that impossible—God and man, after His healing touch with me. Only God could do that.
I shared with them my story. 
They praised God with me. 
It was like a family I did not have.
Looking around the group, I thought, “We’re misfits—unacceptable by our own. Unclean, until Jesus made us clean.”

Following Jesus with these women, I heard His teaching. 
I was there when He fed five thousand men, plus women and children. 
He spoke about discipleship. What it took to be one.
Perhaps by having no family, I could serve Him better.
I’d have freedom, a family would not give me. 
I could devote everything to Him, not to a husband.

His teaching was not like the Law—filled with rules making someone clean or unclean. In fact, He condemned the religious leaders as white-washed sepulchers because of all their rules.
Mary Magdalene shared with me, how she slipped inside to a meal where Jesus ate and washed His feet with her hair. 
When the host degraded her, Jesus told a story about two men who were forgiven their debts. He asked, “Who would love Me more?” 
The obvious answer, “The one with the greater debt, loved more.” 
Mary felt her sins, which were many, were forgiven. Her sacrifice no comparison to what she had been forgiven. 
Jesus did not condemn her; He praised her sacrifice.
I had to process that. I wanted to hold onto the wrong done to me. By doing that, would I not be forgiven my wrong? Was it worth holding onto those wrongs? 
Forgiveness seems a hard thing.

Jesus’s teachings were harder than rules. 
Rules can be checked off, then one could think himself good. 
But His way—to love and obey Him, meant deny my own desires—not so easy to do.


At times He took His disciples away from the crowds. We could follow and He explained His teachings. But other times, He took His disciples away from the crowds and us. I wished I knew what He told them then. 

When they came to Caesarea Philippi, I hosted them. My small house could hardly contain Jesus and his disciples, but it was a sanctuary to rest from the crowds. I was grateful my dowry had allowed that expense.

Passover came.
The first one I could celebrate since I’d been clean. 

The need for that perfect lamb, without blemish or spot—clean—had new meaning to me. I was reminded how by being unclean, I could not partake of anything of life—like I was dead.
The blood of the lamb was not drunk or eaten, but was once painted on the door of their house, to protect them from the Angel who brought death to those who did not have its covering. 
Blood protects.
Blood cleans. Did not the painting make that household clean, acceptable to live?
I had never considered how the lamb’s blood cleans—only how mine stained my clothing and made me unclean. 
Considering the Passover brought new meaning to me.

I did not have family to celebrate Passover. Mary, the mother of Jesus, invited me to join hers in Jerusalem. 
Her thoughtfulness curbed my loneliness that brought bitter thoughts toward Ezra.

The following day, a messenger knocked at the door to tell us to hurry to the place of the Skull.
It was an awful place, where Romans crucified criminals.
We hurried, not knowing why. 
An ominous cloud pressed on me. I could hardly drag my feet as we grew closer. I struggled to keep up with Mary.
When we got there, Mary cried out, falling to her knees. 
I followed her gaze.

That man on the cross could not be—

He was beaten beyond recognition. 
But He spoke, and I knew His voice—Jesus.
“Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.”
I wanted to scream, “Forgive? No! They know what they do.”
He—the Master of bringing life from the dead, healing the sick, freeing lives. Could He not save Himself?
 

As His own blood poured out, He became weaker, unable to breathe, I knew that feeling—I felt His pain. Every breath a struggle. Every drop more weakness.
They had not done this to Him. 
No, He had allowed them to do this to Him. He gave Himself up.
Isn’t that what He told us? A servant would lay down his life for one he loved. 
But these were not His friends. Why would He love them?

Words He had spoken came back, “No servant is greater than his master. Consider the prophets. They were killed for their message. Why would their Master be treated any better?”
I did not understand.
I remembered the crowds—they didn’t want Jesus to stay in the town after healing the demon possessed; they didn’t rejoice over a man’s healing, but was more concerned He’d healed on the Sabbath or had destroyed a herd of pigs, or He had touched a leper. 
They weren’t there to give Him praise, but to find fault—to do what hurts Him most.
And He forgave them.

I felt a drop on my hand—His blood. 

Blood from a dying man. 
Under the Law, I’d be unclean, unable to celebrate the Sabbath tomorrow. Rather than clean it off my hand, I rubbed it in. 
He was never unclean. 
His blood had power. 
I did not understand how, but I knew it would work in me. His blood would make me clean and give me strength.

The sky turned black; thunder rolled; the earth opened to swallow itself. The heavens opened and poured rain.
God’s judgment on fallen man.
We trembled and huddled, seeking to hide in our cloaks, but would not leave the cross. 
Our uncleanness exposed.
Even a soldier cried out, “Surely, this was the Son of God.”

He died. 

The Roman soldiers made sure He was dead by piercing His side.
Blood and water poured out.
His body would be taken from the cross today, not left after the Sabbath.
We left.
I walked with Mary to her home.

The days following were quiet.
We sat, without speaking.
Jesus was dead.
Something inside me died, too.
Hope.

I felt despair while sick for 12 years, but even in my muddled mind, there was hope after this life.
But His death brought complete hopelessness.
If Jesus, Who healed and raised the dead—Who was so good, could be killed by evil, what hope did I have? 
I could never be clean enough for God’s standard. Especially after seeing how Jesus forgave His enemies.
His goodness showed my uncleanness.
This uncleanness wasn’t declared to the world, as my sickness had been; it was felt in my heart, which was more deadly. 
It would keep me from God.

Jesus’s words pressed into my heart, “Let not your heart be troubled, you believe in Me, believe also in God.” 
I was troubled, all right. 
Hard to believe God in the midst of evil.
How does one believe in good when evil wins?
How does one hope, when no future is good?
Where’s peace in the middle of uncleanness, no washing could ever take away?

I felt the answers were hidden in His words.
His request to forgive them—Pierced my heart.
I had someone to forgive too.
It was no small hurt.
But like Mary, what I had been forgiven, demanded great love in return.
I struggled with the evil within me.

Three days later after the Sabbath, some of the women went to the tomb to prepare His body. They found an empty tomb and angels declaring, “He is risen.”
We gathered with the eleven disciples. They declared, “The Lord has really risen.”
Others shared how they’d seen the risen Lord.
We listened and wondered what it all meant.

Suddenly, Jesus was there.

No door had opened. He was just there.
The entire room stopped talking. 
The silence filled with fear that could be felt. 
No one walks through walls. 
But then He spoke.

It was the voice of the Lord. “Why are you troubled? Why do doubts arise in your hearts?”
I let out a deep breath I’d been holding. My heart seemed to start again.
“See My hands and My feet, it is I. Touch Me. A spirit doesn’t have flesh and bones as you see I have.”
He showed us His hands, pierced where the nails had been driven. 
His feet, too.
His disciples stepped forward hesitantly. 
John touched His hand lightly with one finger, then grabbed him in a hug. He laughed and cried unashamedly. 
The others disciples followed. All talked at once.
We all approached Him then. 

I hesitated. My habit of 12 years staying out of a crowd, not to mingle with others, was hard to break. 
He looked over the crowd around Him. His glance met mine. “Come here, daughter.”
I hesitated no longer. I was in His arms and crying. No words were needed. It was enough to feel His touch. To know the power and gentleness of His arms.

No one was rushed. All came to Him.

He was Alive! And here.

When the room settled down and all had greeted Him, 
I glanced at His mother. She looked like she’d never stop smiling.
Guess I was smiling too.

Jesus looked over the room, “Have you anything to eat?”
We all laughed. The tension and grief of the past three days dispelled. Maybe we felt relief, He still needed food.
Such a human thing to ask. A common, every-day necessity. A need of all man. 
I took a deep breath.
Jesus was back. 
He was alive.

How does one’s mind go from ultimate grief in His death to seeing Him alive and eating!
Mary stepped forward with things she had brought—fish and bread.
He ate.
We watched, as if our life depended upon it. My life did.
He was alive! Not in spirit but flesh we could touch.
That ate food!

That last image of His broken body on the cross, the splash of blood on my hand, the lost feeling of losing everything—was replaced with His presence now! He would be with us forever. Nothing could stop Him now.

My eyes told me, but my heart had to catch up. I shook my head in wonder. 
My entire being felt light—the hopelessness gone. Replaced with joy—joy that could not be taken away by death.  

When He finished eating, He sat and taught.
“All things written about Me in the Law of Moses and the Prophets and Psalms must be fulfilled.
“Thus it is written, Christ would suffer and rise from the dead the third day. Repentance for forgiveness of sins would be proclaimed in His name to all the nations, beginning from Jerusalem.” 
He gestured to the entire room. “You are My witnesses. I am sending forth the promise of My Father upon you. Stay in the city until you are clothed with power from on high.”

We left that crowded room and followed Him to Bethany.
He spent days with us. 
He showed us the Scriptures and how they pointed to Him.
I understood the Scriptures like never before.
Scales were lifted from my eyes; confusing passages now seemed so obvious.

He lifted up His arms to bless us. Reminding us of the power His Father would give us.
The disciples asked about His kingdom. It was time He restored everything to right and rule.
But He answered, “It’s not for you to know times or seasons which the Father has fixed by His own authority. But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you shall be My witnesses both in Jerusalem and in all Judea and Samaria and even to the remotest part of the earth.”
As He spoke, a cloud lifted Him. He dissolved in the cloud.

He was gone!

I had felt grief at His death, joy at His resurrection, but this was different. It was a loss and confusion.
I thought once He returned He would stay with us forever.
I looked at the others to confirm I’d seen Him disappear.
They looked as confused as I.

Two men in dazzling white robes spoke. They had not been there before.
I shielded my eyes to look at them, for they reflected a glory not of this world. 
One spoke, “Men of Galilee, why do you look into the sky? This Jesus, Who has been taken from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you have watched Him go into heaven.”

I looked again at the clouds. The big puffy clouds hid the brightness of the sun. I wanted to memorize how the clouds looked. I’d never look at clouds again without looking for His return.
 
I had felt empty when He died, but it was a loss without hope.
Now, I felt His loss, but recalled His promise that a Comforter would come.
I needed that Comforter. I didn’t know how I would be a witness without Him.  

We followed the disciples back to Jerusalem and waited, as Jesus had told us, for the power from His Father. We could never imagine how or what that meant. But when it came, there was no doubt.
Just like when a person is healed by Jesus. There’s no doubt they’d been with Jesus.
How can a person be touched by His love and power, yet remain unchanged?
Yet I remember the crowds…they see, but remain curious, aloft, diffident, not allowing His touch to change them.
They become stubborn and stuck in their own way.

When His Spirit came upon all who believed in that room—there was no going back. The change was genuine, complete and whole. 
Having the Spirit reside inside each believer means Jesus is with us all the time. I could speak to Him and hear His voice. 
That also means, He prompts me to change. I cannot hold my hurts and patterns of thinking that harbor hurts; I must forgive. 
He encourages me, no commands me, to forgive. Not through my own strength, but through the power and strength of God Who raises the dead and heals. 
Through the power of His blood poured out for me, He rescues me from myself.
I don’t need His physical touch. Nor His drop of blood rubbed on my hand.
There is power in His blood. It washes my uncleanness and makes me as white as snow.
Not some physical uncleanness, but deeper. That uncleanness that would keep me from His Holy Presence.

There is protection in His blood. No evil can separate me from Him. Evil’s power has been destroyed.
There is healing in His blood. My wayward desires that would destroy me are changed and conformed to His will.
There is purpose in His blood. He makes me His witness to tell others what He has done for me. 

God did give me a way I could witness and point others to Him.
Not like the disciples who preached and healed.
But my witness still pointed others to Him.
I made two statues and placed them at the entrance of my courtyard in Caesarea Philippi. One statue of a woman on her face grabbing the hem of the other statue. That other statue was Jesus. The replication was well done. It pointed people to know the Jesus Who has power in His touch. Who can take the unclean and make them clean. Who can forgive and enable forgiveness.

Many asked me about them. And I would tell my story.
A story of a desperate woman who found healing by touching the Master. Healing both inside and out, complete and whole.
That enabled me to live in peace.
That is my story. 

____________

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https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/divorce-in-the-bible/
https://www.katrinadhamel.com/post/marriage-and-divorce-in-the-days-of-jesus

I write about what matters...to you---
women, wives and moms---
about your family, faith and future.
I write about what's hard, what helps and what heals.
I show you how it's done. And not done.
I hold your hand as you find what matters to the Savior.
And let go of those things that mattered to you, but not to Him.
I write about what matters...to Him.
               Sonya Contreras