It’s the loneliness that’s the hardest to cope with.

Especially after dark.

When there’s no one to talk to anymore…

as you sit for your evening meal.

No one to ask, “how’s your day been?”

And no one to listen to your joys or petty gripes.

It’s easy enough to keep quite busy during the day:

what, with cleaning the house;

mending clothes;

fetching water;

doing some planting or weeding in the small veggie garden.

But night-time… that’s hard.

Mostly, I just go to bed early…

and hope that I’ll sleep through the night.

I don’t go out much nowadays.

Can’t really. 

Not since I got sick.

And that’s only made the loneliness much worse.

I miss being able to do all the things that I used to do.

Things I used to take for granted just a few years ago.

Things that I just can’t do now:

long strolls alongside the seashore;

browsing through the stalls at the local market;

catching up with old friends and the latest gossip;

organising big family celebrations, when I’d spend days preparing and cooking food;

even going to the synagogue to worship.

 

Being a widow is difficult enough—

but it’s especially hard when you get sick.

Jonathan was a good man… 

and I miss him… 

awfully.

I miss his mop of greying-hair…

his brown, weather-lined face…

his funny, slightly bulbous nose…

and his gentle, reassuring smile.

I’ve really struggled since he died.

Not just with the loneliness and the tedium. 

But also having to cope with things that I never had to do before:

balancing the budget;

paying taxes;

minor repairs to the house.

And it’s been a huge strain financially.

Every spare penny I have has gone on medical bills—

all to no avail.

My children and my extended family try to help… when they can.

But they all have their own lives—

and their own families now…

which keep them busy…

and some of them are battling hard just to keep their businesses going too.

What, with the lack of rain and everything.

So, I don’t want to be a burden to them—

especially when they’re struggling to make ends meet.

And I don’t see as much of them now.

Now that some of them having left town…

and moved to the city looking for more work.

They do come to visit… 

occasionally… 

when they can…

not as much as I’d like, of course.

But that’s the way it is, I suppose.

Truth be told… 

it’s not just because they’re busy.

In part, I suppose… because… they’re embarrassed by my illness…

because it’s made me unclean…

a social outcast…

unable to go out in public.

It means whenever they do come to visit, they can’t touch me…

or touch anything that I’ve touched.

Otherwise, they have to go through an elaborate cleansing ritual.

 

Being a sick widow in Galilee is a dreadful thing.

Struggling to make ends meet.

Enduring loneliness and isolation.

Feeling cut off from the world.

Feeling like you’re of no use to anyone or anything.

Just a burden…

or a nuisance…

or an embarrassment.

Worthless… less than human.

I couldn’t go on like that.

It wasn’t a life… it was an existence.

 

So that’s why I decided to go and find that Jesus-fellow.

I knew I shouldn’t have.

I knew I wasn’t supposed to go out in public.

Just in case I touched someone and made them unclean.

But I was desperate.

I had to try something… 

anything. 

I had to change my situation, somehow.

But I couldn’t just go up to him and ask him for help.

Not in public.

After all, I’d been treated as useless, worthless, and an embarrassment for so long…

that I didn’t have a good opinion of myself.

And I wasn’t sure that he’d want to help someone like me.

And if I asked, and he said no… well…

In any case, a Hebrew man isn’t supposed to talk to a woman in public;

certainly not a woman who isn’t a close relative;

and especially not a woman who’s an outcast.

 

So, there I was, fighting my way through this huge jostling crowd.

A great noisy rabble thronging around him…

as he made his way along the dusty road…

up from the seashore, into town.

People from all walks of life:

grotty peasants;

smelly fisherman;

wealthy toffs;

and a few prim and self-righteous religious types. 

All of them pushing and shoving…

yelling and hassling…

pleading for help…

or merely straining for a glimpse.

It was like a carnival… or a circus.

Squeezing and straining my way between bodies…

from the back of the pack… 

I managed to get close enough to see the back of his head.

But he was still out of reach…

while the push and swell of the crowd was growing…

threatening to swamp me.

Try as I might, I couldn’t get any closer.

It wouldn’t have taken much for me to go under and be trampled.

I wasn’t sure what to do.

So, summoning up all my energy and courage, I just lunged towards him…

right arm outstretched…

momentarily grasping the dirty-white hem of the cloak draping his shoulders.

 

He stopped. 

Dead in his tracks.

Turned every-which-way. 

Looking intently and purposefully.

“Who touched my clothes?”

His followers responded with rude ridicule.

But he didn’t pay any attention to them.

He just kept looking around.

And, for a moment, I could’ve sworn that he looked straight at me.

I don’t know why… 

but I started to edge forward.

Somehow… the crowd just seemed to part.

And next thing I knew, I was kneeling before him.

Terrified and trembling.

What was I going to say?

What could I say?

If I explained why I’d done it…

then he might announce it to the whole crowd.

And I’d be humiliated.

Or worse.

What if he laughed at me?

Or yelled at me?

What if he told me I was a good-for-nothing so-and-so?

How I had no right to do what I did.

How I shouldn’t even have been there.

What if he abused me for touching him and making him unclean?

And everyone else?

I don’t think I could’ve coped.

 

But he didn’t.

 

With a small, reassuring smile on his face—

that reminded me of Jonathan—

he placed his hand lightly on my shoulder. 

And, with a warm and gentle voice, told me to get up.

And he called me “daughter”.

“Daughter”.

As if to say… 

your family might be embarrassed by you.

they might avoid you…

or reject you…

but I accept you.

Like you’re part of my family.

To me you are clean.

You are whole.

You are worthwhile.

 

After he helped me to my feet… 

I went back home…

feeling lighter…

like a burden had been lifted…

but scarcely believing what’d happened.

 

It’s like… 

he had called me out so that everyone could see his response.

So that they could see how someone important in the community actually valued me…

thought I was worthwhile…

welcomed me with open arms…

and told me I was clean and whole.

Maybe... 

he was trying to teach them something as well;

about how they saw and treated others;

Maybe…

he was trying to show them that… 

in welcoming the outcast…

the embarrassing… 

and the seemingly useless… 

we’re all made whole.