Just the Hem by Alyssa Pugh
On an abandoned path, hidden from the public, I walked home from the market. No one is ever on this road, so I walk with my eyes straight ahead rather than fixed to the ground. For a moment, my shoulders relax.
For years, what ails me has determined my worth. It writes the rules for my life. It sets the schedule for my days. The roads that I walk down, the places that I visit, my conversations, they are all dictated by my affliction.
To the world, I am filthy. This torment that was once so easy to hide now bleeds out, requiring to be noticed. I am not to be touched or spoken to. They fear that what plagues my life will seep into theirs, making them filthy too. I am out of control. I am unworthy. I am diseased. I am discarded. I am lonely. I am beginning to believe that this anguish that holds me captive will be my undertaker—that I will die dirty and alone.
A roar of voices comes from the near distance. Startled, I lunge for cover behind a tree before anyone notices me. Peeking around the bark, I catch a glimpse of the commotion. A large group surrounds an ordinary man. Who is that man? Stretching my neck, I can see someone knelt in front of him, begging. “Lay your hand on her, and she will live,” he says. Will she live? That is absurd. Who but God can raise anyone from the dead?
My heart thumps hard while my breath dips into my throat. The contents of my arms hit the ground as the color drains from my face. My thoughts are racing. The Messiah? The One who everyone is talking about? Could this ordinary man be the One? I’ve heard whispers of him healing the lepers and the blind.
My feet are moving faster than I have ever run in my entire life. They are carrying me so quickly that my brain doesn’t even have time to catch up to what they are doing. If I bring my sludge and shame into that crowd, everyone will taunt me, casting me away. If I touch a man with my disgusting hands, I will surely be stoned to death. Though, any fate seems more appealing than this abyss of isolation. My infirmity will so revile him that he will shrink his hands back in revolt. Who am I to have the eye of the Messiah? There are far cleaner people for him to lay his hands on. Suppose I could just run fast enough, though. Suppose I could slip through the crowd. If I could just touch the hem of his robe…
Dust flies into my eyes and nostrils as my chest hits the ground at the feet of Jesus. I can barely make out which hem is his, but I grab, blindly, and my fingers rest on the fringe of a tattered, worn robe. I roll the threads between my thumb and index finger. Time stops; for that moment, I am paralyzed.
Jesus, the Messiah, freezes in his steps. My head is pounding. My body is quaking. The people around us are silent. I am going to be killed.
I snap my hand back just as he turns, bending to look into my face. My mouth is locked open as I attempt to explain myself. Words disappear. Nothing but primal breathes and grunts escape me. I brace for the impact of a thousand stones. Jesus reaches out his hand; a smile spreads across his face as his gaze meets mine, “ Daughter…”
“A woman who had suffered from a discharge of blood for twelve years came up behind him and touched the fringe of his garment, for she said to herself, “If I only touch his garment, I will be made well.” Jesus turned, seeing her said, “Take heart, daughter, your faith has made you well.” And instantly, the woman was made well. Matthew 9: 20-22
My name is Alyssa Pugh! I am a worshiper, wife, and full-time girl mom. I just recently left my job in the medical field to stay home with our girls in our fifth wheel camper, where we live year round as grounds keepers for a local city lake. I serve on the worship team at my home church as well as host a life group there. I have been writing since I was a child, but have recently began writing to glorify the Lord about three years ago when I gave my life fully to Christ.
You can read more of her work at https://lysserjeanzor.blogspot.com/ or follow along on her Instagram @pughsonthepraire.