If I May But Touch

by Connie Keenan

That voice hadn’t lied. That was the truth.

  The woman had tried to show me kindness by leaving some meager scraps of food outside on a small rag set on the ground. But even she had looked around, no doubt making sure no one saw her, and called out to me, “Take it. Take what you want. Please hurry!”

  I was hungry, so hungry that I didn’t wait to bite off a morsel of bread. The fish had been cooked earlier, for breakfast, perhaps. It was cold; to me, it tasted like a meal fit for a queen.

  When you’ve gone for days without eating, any bit of food tastes good to you. Another woman who saw me in the street stopped to throw stones at me.

  “Get out of here, you filth!” She then spat in my direction. “Dirty, vile woman!”

  There was no home to go to. Not anymore. The streets and the wilderness had been my home for quite some time. For years, Ilan would bring me money—Ilan or one of my brothers, who’d inherited my father’s money. Most of that money had gone to doctors. Doctor after doctor, each one putting me through one painful and futile remedy after another.

  Nothing had ever worked. All that was accomplished was that I lost all the money given to me by my former husband, who now had another wife and children, and the family I’d once had that no longer wanted anything to do with me. My home, everything I owned was gone. I had lost everything.

  I kept walking, eating slowly, trying to savor the bread and the fish. The kindhearted woman had also left me a small cup of cold water, which I also took my time drinking. As I walked and ate, I broke into tears.

  Do you really want to live this way, woman? This is the kind of God your father served. He has turned His face from you, just like everyone else. He has abandoned you. You aren’t even accepted in His presence.

  I had to admit, that was true. God was far from me. Ever since I had become ill, since the issue of blood began, my prayers seemed to have fallen on deaf ears.

  I finished the last of the bread when I was deep in the wilderness. Sometimes I found solace there. Certainly, I found time away from the icy looks and unkind words from other people. The blood flow happened to be worse that day. There was a trail of blood behind me.

  Exhausted, I sank to the ground and rested under a tree. I looked down at my hands and feet. “Filth” aptly described what I saw. With my sandals falling apart, my feet were encrusted in a layer of dust and mud from walking the streets aimlessly. There was dirt under my fingernails and in between my fingers. I wiped my hands on my clothes and looked out at the cliff several steps away from where I sat.

  That’s very high up from the ground. If you fell from there, you wouldn’t survive the fall. Your misery would be over.

  Angrily, I brushed away at the hot tears flowing down my face.

  You know, if that happened, no one would even miss you. Not a soul. But at least this would all be over, mercifully enough. Go on now. God’s not going to care one way or the other anyway. Throw yourself off this cliff and be done with it.

  It was a suggestion. A soft-spoken suggestion. I fidgeted with my belt, staring at the drop. Just a few steps away—and then nothing but sky.

  Below was Death.

  Go on. Don’t be afraid. It’s for the best. Be brave. It will be quick.

  Oddly, that made sense. Slowly, I rose to my feet, supporting myself against the tree behind me. I made my way over to the edge of the mountain. The wind blew, but it sounded more like an animal’s howl in my ears.

  It would be quick, jumping to my death from that height. Hadn’t I already suffered enough? Eight long years. No hope of ever being healed.

  And no one wanted me to touch them. Everyone and everything I touched instantly became defiled. I swallowed hard, suddenly trembling and feeling sick with fear.

  What are you waiting for? Now. NOW. Kill yourself!

  That quiet voice had become, from one moment to the other, insistent. Enraged. Cruel.

  For several minutes I stood there, looking out over the mountain. Trying to decide between life and death.

  Do you still have hope? What a fool. You have no hope, woman. Kill yourself and be done with this life!

  I swallowed and pushed strands of my hair away from my eyes. I stared up at the sky, the bright and pleasant blue in between the pristine, white clouds. At the heavens above me. My breaths were coming heavier.

  “Is that true?” I asked the One who had made the sky and the mountain. “Is there hope for me? Even a little?”

  He isn’t going to answer you. He doesn’t care about you. You’re a worthless, little insect to Him. You’re unclean, woman. Unclean, unclean, unclean!

  My hands flew to my ears. I tried to shut out the heartless voice. I licked my cracked lips and waited, my eyes fixed on the sky. I waited.

  I waited for angels to appear. For a beautiful bird to fly over me. Some sign that I’d been heard. Hadn’t God shown Himself in the time of Moses as a pillar of smoke by day and a pillar of fire? Why wouldn’t He show Himself now? What had I done to deserve His silence?

  “Please show me Your mercy,” I pleaded in a breath. “Give me a reason to believe. Please, King of Heaven…King of Glory. Give me a reason to go on.”

  I waited. And I knelt on the ground. I cried until my own tears seemed to cleanse me. Until some semblance of peace washed over me. A comforting, real peace unlike anything I’d known since the onset of my condition.

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