Introduction

Some of us walked in today smiling on the outside and sore on the inside. You know that quiet ache that doesn’t announce itself but lingers like a shadow—fatigue that coffee can’t fix, fear that keeps whispering, “This is just how it will be,” and shame that makes you want to blend into the background. If that’s you, you’re in good company. This is a room full of people who know what it is to limp, to be lonely, to wonder if the Lord knows their name—and to hope for a holy touch.

I think of a woman who would rather stay unknown. She is worn to the bone, pockets empty, options gone, and hope hanging by a thread. She is tired of trying and tired of telling her story. But on a day that looked ordinary, she reached. Just one quiet, trembling reach. Sometimes faith doesn’t shout. Sometimes faith just stretches a hand through the crowd and brushes the edge of a robe.

E.M. Bounds once said, “God shapes the world by prayer.” If God shapes the world by prayer, imagine what He can shape in a single life that dares to reach. Imagine what He can do with the pain you brought in—a diagnosis, a disappointment, a delay. The One who made you is moving toward you. He sees you when others miss you. He hears the prayers you’re too tired to voice out loud. And when your strength is small, a simple reach is enough.

Today we will listen to a story that feels like ours—about a Savior who stops for the one, about faith that finds its way through a wall of people, about a word that heals more than a body. We’ll remember: - God sees your battle. - Faith reaches for Jesus. - Go in peace made whole.

Before we pray, let’s hear the story in full.

Mark 5:25-34 (KJV) 25 And a certain woman, which had an issue of blood twelve years, 26 And had suffered many things of many physicians, and had spent all that she had, and was nothing bettered, but rather grew worse, 27 When she had heard of Jesus, came in the press behind, and touched his garment. 28 For she said, If I may touch but his clothes, I shall be whole. 29 And straightway the fountain of her blood was dried up; and she felt in her body that she was healed of that plague. 30 And Jesus, immediately knowing in himself that virtue had gone out of him, turned him about in the press, and said, Who touched my clothes? 31 And his disciples said unto him, Thou seest the multitude thronging thee, and sayest thou, Who touched me? 32 And he looked round about to see her that had done this thing. 33 But the woman fearing and trembling, knowing what was done in her, came and fell down before him, and told him all the truth. 34 And he said unto her, Daughter, thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace, and be whole of thy plague.

Opening Prayer: Father, thank You for seeing us—every fear, every tear, every long night. Thank You for Jesus, who stops for the one, who calls us “Daughter” and “Son,” who heals what doctors cannot touch and what time cannot fix. Holy Spirit, lift our heads. Quiet the noise that competes with Your voice. Strengthen the feeble knees and fill our hands with a simple, steady reach toward Christ. Where sickness has settled, bring healing. Where shame has stuck, bring freedom. Where hearts are heavy, pour peace like oil. Open our ears to hear Your word, open our eyes to see Your kindness, and open our hearts to receive the wholeness You give. In Jesus’ name, amen.

God Sees Your Battle

The scene is crowded. People push in from every side. Sand on the road. Noise in the air. In the middle of that, Jesus stops. He turns. He asks, Who touched my clothes. His friends do not get it. Many hands are on him, yet he keeps looking for one person. He will not move on until he finds her. That is care. That is focus. That is the gaze that does not miss a small reach.

He felt power go out from him. She did not even grab his hand. She brushed the edge of a garment. It looked small to the crowd. It did not look small to him. A soft reach, born in pain, reached all the way to his heart. He felt it at once. He still feels it when you lift a quiet prayer in a busy day. He notices a whisper in the middle of loud life. He knows when trust stretches through fear and touches him.

He scans the faces. He searches for her. He is not angry. He is present. He wants her to know she is seen. He wants the crowd to know she matters. He wants to meet the person behind the touch. He is the Lord who stops for one name in a tide of needs.

The woman has been sick for twelve years. That is a long time. Years of missed meals with friends. Years of being kept at a distance. Years of spending money and getting worse. Mark says she suffered many things from many doctors. She tried hard. She paid much. She came up empty.

Jesus knows all of that. He knows the number of years. He knows what she lost. He knows the mornings she woke up tired and the nights she cried. He knows the shame of being called unclean. He knows the sting of people who would not touch her. He does not shrug at long stories. He carries them.

When he heals her, it is not random. It is not lucky. It is not a quick fix with no heart behind it. He answers a long fight with a careful grace. He gives a gift that fits the ache. He gives strength where life has been drained. He makes the bleeding stop, and he also tends to the wear in her soul from twelve years of strain.

Then he speaks to her. He says, Daughter. That word changes the room. It is gentle. It is strong. It places her in a family. It gives her a seat at the table. It tells her that she belongs. People had called her many names. He calls her by one name that heals. Daughter.

He ties the healing to faith. Your faith has made you whole. He honors trust. He points her away from superstition and toward himself. The cloth had no power on its own. His grace did the work. He wants her to stand in that truth. He wants her to walk out knowing why she is well. He wants her to carry a word, not a rumor.

That one word, Daughter, also speaks to fear. It quiets the panic that comes after long pain. It says, You are mine. It says, I hold you. It gives courage to lift her head and tell her story. It gives a new center for the days ahead, when old thoughts try to creep back in.

He also brings her into the light. She tells him all the truth. That means details. The parts she would rather hide. The parts that feel small and the parts that feel too much. He lets her talk. He does not rush her. He listens while a crowd waits. He gives space for her full story.

Public grace matters here. People need to see it. She had been kept apart. Now they see Jesus receive her. Now they see why she is clean. Now they see her standing, not hiding. This protects her. This restores her. This makes a way for her to walk back into the life she was kept from.

Then he gives a blessing that goes deeper than a symptom. Go in peace, and be whole of your plague. Peace for the mind. Peace for the heart. Wholeness for the body. He speaks a future over her. He is not only ending a flow of blood. He is ending a season of fear. He is ending the long shadow over her days.

He sends her with a word she can hold when old worries try to shout. Peace. He gives a word her neighbors can hear when she shows up again in the market. Whole. He gives a word her family can rest in when she comes home. Peace. He gives a word her body can live under when she wakes up the next morning. Whole.

This is how the Lord works in a real fight. He sees you in a crowd. He knows the years. He calls you by a name of love. He speaks peace and wholeness over every layer of the need.

Faith Reaches for Jesus

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