She Touched Me

1. The Room We’re In

Sometimes you come to church, but your mind doesn’t.

You sit down, still hearing the argument from breakfast, still turning over what the boss said on Friday, still carrying a silence at home that’s heavier than words.

You look at the bulletin, nod to someone across the aisle, try to sing—but the truth is, your soul is tired.

You didn’t come because you felt strong; you came because you were hoping something might steady you again.

That’s all right.

You being here is already a kind of faith.

You reaching for quiet is already a prayer.

There’s a woman in the Gospels who understands that kind of tired.

She came to Jesus not out of strength, but out of desperation.

Her story begins where a lot of ours do—worn out, unseen, still reaching.

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2. The Woman in the Crowd

Mark introduces her quietly:

> “A certain woman, which had an issue of blood twelve years.”

That’s it.

No name, no title—just her problem.

For twelve years she’s been bleeding, day after day.

It’s not only a physical struggle; it’s social.

She’s considered unclean, barred from worship, avoided in public.

Everywhere she goes, people step back.

She’s spent all she has.

She’s done everything the world told her to do.

And still she wakes up every morning to the same ache.

I think about her sometimes when I see people come into church quietly, sitting near the back, trying to hold themselves together.

There’s a look people get when they’ve tried everything.

That was her look.

But somewhere she heard a rumor: Jesus is coming through town.

And something inside her said, If He really is who they say He is, I’ve got one more reach left in me.

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3. The Modern Mirror

I imagine another woman—not in ancient Judea but in our own city.

She’s middle-aged, carrying too much for too long.

There’s an aging parent at home, a child who’s drifting, bills that keep finding her before her paycheck does.

Her phone is full of messages she doesn’t want to answer.

She prays in the car sometimes with the radio off because it’s the only quiet place she’s got.

She doesn’t bleed, but she’s been losing life drop by drop—through worry, guilt, exhaustion.

And one Sabbath morning she walks into church like this:

tired eyes, polite smile, holding herself together by faith and habit.

That woman and the one in Mark 5—they’re sisters.

Different centuries, same story: both quietly hemorrhaging, both hoping that maybe today something might change.

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4. The Reach

The Gospel says she came up behind Him, through the crowd, and touched His garment.

Think about what that means.

She shouldn’t even have been there.

The law said she was untouchable.

But faith pushed her past rules, past fear, past what people might say.

“If I can just touch His clothes, I’ll be healed.”

That wasn’t a theory; it was a last-ditch hope.

Faith doesn’t always look noble. Sometimes it just looks tired but reaching.

And then it happens.

Instantly, the bleeding stops.

She knows it.

She feels the strength come back into her body like light after a long night.

Jesus stops too.

He turns around in the crowd and asks, “Who touched Me?”

The disciples think the question’s absurd.

But Jesus knows the difference between a bump and a touch—between curiosity and faith.

He looks around for her.

And when she realizes she can’t hide, she comes trembling and falls before Him.

She tells Him everything.

Not just about the bleeding, but about the loneliness, the shame, the fear.

And Jesus listens.

Then He says words no doctor ever could:

> “Daughter, your faith has made you whole. Go in peace.”

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5. What He Really Healed

Healed—yes, but also heard.

Seen.

Called Daughter for the first time in years.

He gave her back more than health; He gave her belonging.

Because sometimes the bleeding that hurts most isn’t in the body—it’s in the heart that believes it doesn’t matter anymore.

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6. Bringing It Home

I don’t know what your “twelve years” have been.

Maybe it’s not twelve years—maybe it’s twelve days or twelve months—but you’ve been losing something slowly.

Your peace.

Your hope.

Your sense that God still sees you.

And maybe you came today out of routine, out of guilt, out of sheer momentum.

But you came.

And that’s your reach.

You don’t have to have the words perfect.

You don’t have to push through the crowd with confidence.

Just reach.

Even a trembling touch from earth up still draws power from heaven down.

Jesus never rebuked that woman for breaking rules—He honored her for breaking silence.

He’s still doing that today.

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7. The Touch That Touched Back

When she touched Him, He touched her back.