If only I could touch his cloak,
thought the woman
who hoped for a cure.
If only….
She knew her disease,
having lived with it for twelve years,
and she wanted it gone.
Jesus was near enough for her fingers to
graze the tassel at the edge of his garment,
barely skimming the cloth,
her touch like a gentle breeze.
She reached out,
and the disease fled her body.
What joy she must have felt when
something shifted inside her,
and she knew her torment had ended.
That glancing touch had been enough.
If only I could touch his cloak,
I could be cured of my dis-ease,
the uncertainty that causes me to second-guess my decisions,
the insecurities and fears that can overshadow me
like the gray clouds of a winter day.
If only…
I want to trust enough to reach out and
touch the tassel of his cloak and
for him to turn toward me and ask,
Who touched me?
Madeline Bialecki 