I met her in January.
We were walking by and she stopped us, asking for medicine.
There were sores, painful sores in her mouth and other areas. I knelt and
looked into her eyes. She was afraid.
Thinking back, I should have stopped and paid more attention,
asked more questions. I should have prayed over her. But I texted my director
for answers and we left.
I have thought about her since then, wondered if the sores
went away.
They haven’t.
Instead, she arrived at our doorstep a few days ago, full of
fear, her body covered in open wounds. They smell, they ooze infection; they
speak of a cruel pain.
Her body is in so much pain, but I think her heart even more
so.
“Curse” they all whisper. Some turn their noses down at her,
and some whisper the word in fear. But it’s clear all believe she has been
inflicted with a curse. No one… not the hospital or the witch doctor… can do
anything for her. She is cursed to die of a painful disease.
And aren’t we all?
It’s interesting to see a reflection of your own heart in
the wounds of someone else. Open, painful sores as a result of the wrong
choice. And isn’t that where my wounds come from? One moment after another of
choosing myself over Him. Self-inflicted illness from a lifetime of picking me.
And it hurts to watch… because it didn’t have to happen.
There is a better way.
I didn’t have to wound myself… there is a better way.
And who am I to deserve this... to be on this side, typing about her pain rather than living with open sores of my own? My choices have been no worse than hers, my pride no better, my sins no smaller. I don't understand.
And I think back to her… the woman whose name I don’t know,
but I know her story. Inflicted with an illness for 12 years, a bleeding
disease, maybe from her choosing, maybe not.
But for twelve years, she roamed yelling “Unclean!” as her
law dictated so everyone would know to stay away. No one knew her name. No one
knew her story. All they knew is that she was unclean, dirty, cursed. She
probably smelled. She probably didn’t have a friend in the world.
This is how she presented herself to Him, wounded inside,
broken outside. All she wanted was just to touch and walk away. She risked the
possibility He would be just like all the rest, that He would send her away, He
would proclaim “Cursed”.
And He could have just let her walk away when the disease
was healed.
But He didn’t.
He didn’t.
Instead, He called her out and made her come forward.
And in place of Unclean, He gave her a new name.
Daughter
In a culture where family is everything and for a woman,
it’s who you belong to that matters.
Daughter
He claimed her as His own. He could have said sister,
friend, woman, but instead, He chose the most intimate relationship he could,
apart from calling her wife.
Daughter
She is mine. Flesh and blood. Unconditional. I claim her. I
want her.
She is mine.
There are always consequences to sin and how quick I am to
hold the judgment and condemnation over myself. I don’t deserve grace or
freedom. I let the wounds fester until they become more than I can bear.
And yet, in spite of me, in spite of the fact that I have
nothing to give Him, nothing that would render me useful, He still says,
“Come”.
He still calls me Daughter.
I am His.
I don't understand why. I never will. So I can shove it away and run back to my life of selfishness. But I don't want to. I want Him.
And for her, He who has the power to break all curses calls
her His own. He says “Daughter. This one is mine.”
And isn’t this our story? The story of a curse we are not
strong enough to overcome, a curse that must be broken by One whose sacrifice
paid our freedom, whose resurrection is life.
You are mine.
