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AN ISSUE OF BLOOD by Stephanie Bashein Emerson a fictional narrative loosely based on Mark 5 21-43 The woman woke to the sound of a rooster crowing at half-light. Quietly she gathered up all the bloodstained cloths from the previous day and stuffed them into a sack. Leaving her tiny room, she glided silently past the stinking latrine that was shared by all the families in the courtyard where she lived, and made her way through the streets to the well. Once there, she quickly dumped the cloths in the washing-trough immediately beneath the flowing waterspouts and began to scrub them. When she had first arrived here she had gone to the washing- troughs with all the other townswomen. But when a few of them had seen the bloodstained cloths she took out of the sack day after day, they began to scold her, calling her “unclean” and “cursed” and accusing her of tainting their well. After that, the woman had been very careful to do her laundry and be gone before anyone else came to the washing-troughs. Back in her room, the woman hung the newly washed cloths on a short line she had strung out across the far corner. She then went and ate a meager breakfast of dates and sunflower seeds, looking over the woven mats she hoped to sell in the market square that day. It hadn’t always been this way. The woman was once wife to a successful farmer; they had had five children, four boys and a girl, and their farm had done a good business growing olives, grapes for wine, and some wheat. Even after her husband’s death, the woman had continued the prosperous farm with the help of her two oldest sons, their wives and growing families. She had looked forward to a comfortable old age with her grandchildren around her amid bountiful harvests. But then the bleeding began. At first she thought it was just the last vestiges of her childbearing days, because in the last few years her monthly courses had become irregular. But it didn’t stop; none of her home remedies did any good, and after she had tried everything she knew she went resignedly to one of the local doctors. After doing all he recommended, the bleeding continued. The doctor then told her about another physician in Jerusalem who was rather more expensive but who had had some success with this particular malady. The woman decided to see this doctor; she sold a few of her least successful fields, left the farm to her two oldest sons, and took off for Jerusalem, confident she would return in a couple of months. That had been twelve years ago. The doctor in Jerusalem hadn’t been able to help her, but recommended another farther away in Tyre who might. She had gone to this doctor, and another, and another, but the bleeding continued. Nothing anyone did ever helped, and the woman began to believe herself cursed, just like the townswomen said. Her life had become a never-ending cycle of loneliness, poverty, pain and blood, and she wondered why the gods just didn’t let her die and be done with her. In order not to have her children also thought of as unclean she hadn’t gone back to her farm; when she used to have money she would send a messenger periodically, so her family would have word of her and she of them. The woman hadn’t seen her daughter get married or her grandchildren grow up. This weighed heavily on her heart and made her days go by without joy or light. The marketplace was abuzz with rumors that the wandering rabbi Yeshua of Nazareth, a prophet of Yahweh who he declared was the one true god, had been seen in the area. Many people had been going to hear him speak, some out of curiosity and others because they were sick and there had been many stories of him having the ability to heal. There was a man who said that Yeshua had chased the demons out of him and made them possess two thousand pigs, which then promptly stampeded over a cliff into the lake. Japhet the pig-herder looked a little nervous at that; he peered behind him as if he expected Yeshua to be walking the streets of the city ready to have demons enter his pigs. The woman, sitting in her little corner of the market square with her woven mats for sale, smiled faintly at his reaction and shook her head at his ignorance. Demons in pigs indeed, she thought. Next thing we’ll hear is that this Yeshua can fly! But the woman kept on hearing stories about him: someone’s child was cured of the cough; another’s father was able to get up and walk again after years of being paralyzed; still another’s aunt had been healed of a terrible disease. It was this last that really caught her attention. For the bleeding still continued, day in, day out. She was weary of her existence, bone tired with the pain, fear and ostracism. The more she heard stories of this Yeshua the more she wanted to seek him out; maybe his god Yahweh was powerful enough to heal her. And even if he couldn’t, then maybe one of his followers would do her a mercy and kill her for her presumption. That was the depths of despair into which the woman had fallen. It had been a particularly bad morning for the woman. She had overslept, and had not been able to completely avoid the townswomen at the well. As she had been hurrying back to her room, a few of them had thrown stones at her, shouting again that she was unclean and should stay away from their well. The woman had had no breakfast either, as the last few days had been very sparse at the marketplace and she was completely without money until she could manage to sell a few of her woven mats. So when the woman heard that Yeshua had arrived and saw the people going down to the lake, she decided then and there to see for herself if the stories were true. She would mingle with the crowd and find out what manner of man was this wandering rabbi who drew so much attention. The woman made sure her veil was securely in place – she didn’t want any of the townswomen to start shouting at her again - and joined the people swarming on the shore. She was able to pick out Yeshua and tried to study him as best as she could. She saw a young man, slightly taller than average, who looked like a Hebrew, with dark brown skin, dark eyes, wispy dark beard and long tightly-curled hair hanging down his back in ropes. He was moving among the crowds in a friendly manner, stopping to speak to anyone who plucked on his sleeve to get his attention. His followers tried to get the crowd to push back, but they would have none of it, and it didn’t seem to bother the rabbi either. The woman saw Jairus pushing through the people, trying to get Yeshua’s attention. She had heard that his youngest daughter was very ill, at death’s door; it looked as though Jairus would ask the rabbi to make her well. He was an important man in the town and in the Hebrew synagogue; the woman realized that if Jairus believed Yeshua could save his daughter, then perhaps he could do something to help her also. She moved through the crowd almost unseen; no one paid any attention to her. Yeshua’s back was to her, his robe moving softly as he walked. Maybe if I just touch the fringe of his robe, that is all it will take, the woman thought. If this Yahweh is so powerful, maybe his prophet can heal me and take away my shame without ever having to look upon me. The woman moved a little closer; her fingers brushed the fringe of Yeshua’s robe, and then everything happened at once— A warmth moved up her arm, into her chest and throughout her body, and then the bleeding ceased. The woman just stood there, incredulous, feeling as well and whole as she had twelve years ago, before this malady had come to curse her. Yeshua stopped suddenly in his tracks, whirled around and said, “Who touched me?” One of his followers, confused by the question, stated, “Rabbi, what do you mean, who touched you? Look at all these people pressing in on us, many have touched you.” “No,” Yeshua insisted. “Someone touched me, someone who believed they would be healed, as I felt power leave me and go into them.” Everyone around them had stopped and listened to this exchange, looking each other and wondering who the culprit had been. Yeshua was turning in a slow circle, trying to find the one who had drained power from him. His eyes lighted on the woman; she realized then that he knew she was the one. Terrified that she would lose her rediscovered health by denying what she had done, she came forward to explain her actions. Afraid and trembling, but with her head held high, the woman stood before Yeshua. “Sir,” she said, “Please don’t be angry with me, it was I that touched you believing I would be healed, as I have had a terrible malady for twelve years. I have spent all my money visiting one doctor after the next, but none of them could help me. Your god Yahweh must surely be powerful, as he healed me through you when I touched just your robe.” Yeshua smiled at her. “You have done nothing to be angry about. Your faith has healed you. Fear not, and go in peace.” Jairus caught up with him and grabbed his hand, talking excitedly and pulling Yeshua in the direction of his house where his daughter lay ill. The rest of the crowd followed a short way, but the woman stood alone, still marveling at the fact that she was now healed. ------------------------------------------------- The caravan stopped at the village to get supplies and sell some of its goods. The caravan’s cook, a woman who had signed on at the beginning of the journey, gathered her few possessions and said goodbye to the camel drovers. She had arrived at her destination, and the caravan chief was sorry to see her go. The woman had made a wonderful rice dish for him and he doubted if he could find another who could prepare it so well. It had been said that she had been healed by the prophet Yeshua, who even now was in and around Jerusalem, making more problems for the authorities by the huge crowds he was drawing to hear him speak and see him perform miracles. The woman walked down the familiar dusty road, marveling at how much had changed and how much had remained the same during the last twelve years. Trees were much taller, and there were now houses on land that had been empty. As she neared her home, her heart leapt when she saw the house; was that another room that had been added on? She hoped she had more grandchildren, young ones she could watch grow this time. Every day now when she awoke she poured a bit of oil on the ground and gave her thanks to Yahweh, who had cured her, and Yeshua, his prophet, who had been so kind to her. She saw some people standing in front of the house, pointing down the road at her, wondering who she was. And was that one of her sons? He looked like her husband had at his age. He seemed to recognize her; he was moving towards her quickly, motioning for the others to follow. The little children were all looking at each other, questioning who this woman was walking to the house. She smiled at that; no matter, they would find out soon enough. She was finally home. . |
I am honored to introduce Stephanie Bashein Emerson as a Jewish writer brings a whole new point of view to the table. She is spiritual and wise, and has a compelling style which you won't be able to resist. . |
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