Signora Sheila

Wiping her hot brow, Tamar adjusted her scarf to better cover her pale skin, and wondered, “Why I am so different? Why can’t I look like the other girls?” Then she promptly bit her tongue for even thinking such a thing!

For if she’d heard it once, she’d heard it a thousand times. “Remember the words of David,” her mother’s words echoed in her mind. I will give you thanks, O Lord, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Your works are wonderful. My soul knows this very well. And then shook her finger in Tamar’s face, “But you, my daughter, seem to forget that.”

“Me? Wonderfully made? With my big ears and my nose too long?” Her friends had all married long ago. But no one, it seemed, wanted her.

The problem

But deep in her heart Tamar knew the real reason was the problem. The one they never talked about, the one she didn’t want to think about. The problem that plagued her thoughts during the day and haunted her nights.

For years, her parents had scrimped and saved to take her to doctors, spending everything they had. But none of them could tell what was causing the bleeding. No doctor had a cure. None had an answer.

“Still, I should feel lucky,” Tamar thought. “No, not lucky. Blessed. Luck is for the pagans, her mother would say. I am truly blessed in having parents who were willing to try so very many doctors that they could barely afford.

But finally even the stalwart, fighting Zephorah admitted defeat. There were no more doctors left to see, and they had gotten no answers. So she shielded her young daughter from the voices as best she could. But nothing could stop the looks. Looks of pity, and of doom. “Poor thing, doomed to never marry,” they said, “doomed to be an old maid.”

“Maybe it was my pride,” Tamar once whispered timidly to her mother. “When I was the first of my friends to become a woman, I’m afraid the excitement of it went to my head. I was a little proud and boastful.”

“Nonsense,” her mother had snapped. “That’s just chance.” But she never offered a plausible explanation. Probably because there wasn’t one.

But that was ten years ago. Two years after the nightmare had started.

She had always been small for her age. While some of her friends started developing more womanly figures, she’d remained as flat as the loaf of unleavened bread in her mother’s kitchen. “Great,” she thought, “I’ll probably be the last. Different, as always, and never fitting in.”

In her more logical, sane moments, she realized how unfounded many of her thoughts were. Many friends had confessed to being envious of her. “Your looks are striking,”  Abigail used to tell her. “Don’t you notice the boys watching you?”

But that was before. Before the problem. When she still had a life — a hope and dreams. But they were long gone, swept away by the never-ending flow of blood, that seemed to take her life with it.

And now, even if by some miracle the Lord were to heal her, she could never marry. The eligible men had long since been snatched up. And who would want an old maid anyway?

Would she never have a home of her own? Never hold a child of her own in her arms?

“Well, mamma,” she thought. “You can think what you like. But I’m sure it was my pride.” Such was her joy at not being the last girl to bloom, but the first! What an honor! The first of her friends to become a woman. Able to marry!

“You’re too young,” her father had insisted. “No father can plead his son’s case. Not for another two years.”

But the two years had come and gone, taking all her hopes with them. Her honor, her pride, and her joy had turned into a nightmare. Unending, with no respite and no relief.

“Tamar,” her mother called from the door. “Come in now, daughter. You’ve been out in that hot sun far too long already. It’s time to start our work anyway. Come and help me.”

“All right Mother, I’m coming.” But there was no place she would rather be. Out in the courtyard, with God’s blue sky above.

In moments like this, she dared to believe that God had forgiven her youthful pride. That He still loved her as His daughter. And that even though healing might never come, she was still a child of Father Abraham.

And life wasn’t always bad, she thought. Some days were pretty good. The days when the bleeding slowed and she could do many of the things she loved with fresh energy. So with renewed hope, she decided to do the unthinkable. She would sneak away with Abigail to hear the great teacher, she decided.

After all, lots of women went to hear Him. Or so Abigail said. Tamar wasn’t even allowed out of her own courtyard. But Abi went out and about. She wasn’t sick and unclean. She had a life.

“It’s only because someone has to do the shopping. And look after my sickly mother-in-law,” Abigail comforted. “Not much excitement in that!”

“Cover your face so no one will recognize you,” she had instructed. And so in the heat of the afternoon, as her parents rested in the courtyard, she slipped out the door with Abigail. Dear Abi, the only friend who still visited faithfully.

“Come on, Tamar,” Abigail urged, “we don’t want to be late!”

“Late? How can anyone be late?” cried Tamar. “There’s no set time is there?”

“Yes there is. You know my cousin who’s a maid in Matthew Levi’s house? Well, she told me that the Rabbi will be eating there. Hurry!”

“A tax collector’s house? Oh Abi, you’re not taking me there are you? Not there!”

“Of course, silly! Huldah has arranged for us to sit under the window, in the courtyard! I didn’t say anything before, because…well, you’re such a worrier!”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. What if we get caught? Or what if Huldah loses her job? Or…”

“Stop worrying,” Abigail interrupted. “Huldah has arranged everything with the overseer! I explained that you couldn’t go out in the crowd to hear the Master. So she arranged it all!”

“Oh but, you didn’t tell her that I’m…I mean, about…?”

“No, of course not. I told her that you haven’t been feeling well lately.”

“Lately!” Tamar thought. “Yeah, like the last twelve years…!”

“And Huldah – she’s a real mother hen – said it would be a real shame if you never got to hear the Master. You know, some even say he’s the Messiah!”

At these words, Tamar gasped, “The Messiah? The Messiah!”

“Well, some think so. Could be, you know. God knows we’ve waited long enough!”

“Hurry,” Huldah whispered. “I must get back to the kitchen. Sit here, but stay out of sight and don’t make a sound! You’re so lucky, she added, “almost a front row seat to hear the Master!”

“Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?” the Pharisees sneered at the disciples. But the Master calmly replied, “It’s the sick, not the healthy who need a doctor.”

“The sick need a doctor. Not the healthy. But the sick.”

These words seemed spoken just for her! “Not the healthy but the sick!”

“You must study the Scriptures and learn,” the Master told them. “All your ceremonial sacrifices are meaningless if you are not merciful to others. I didn’t come to invite good people to follow me. But to invite sinners.”

To invite sinners. To invite sinners. “This man must have come from God,” she thought. “It’s as if He’s speaking directly to me. As if He knows all about my sinful pride, but He is still calling me! I’m still a daughter of Father Abraham!”

With these words echoing in her heart, she knew she had to hear the Master again. She had to see Him, to answer His call. His call to sinners, like her!

And so, one day soon after that she rushed madly out her door. And joined the crowd that was following Jesus to the house of Jarius.

“He calls the sick. And sinners, like me!” The words echoed through her heart.

“Tamar, where are you going?” her mother yelled. “You know you can’t go out! It’s not allow…” But the words died on her lips as her daughter disappeared into the crowd. What could have come over her?

Gone were the fear and timidity. She’d heard Words of life. She knew that He had come to call sinners and heal the sick.

And then she heard someone in the crowd say, “The Master is going to heal Jairus’ daughter!” “No,” cried another, “they came and told the father that she died. But Jesus is going anyway!”

The words raced through her head. “Healing and life for sinners, like me!” So she pushed through the crowd, trying to reach the Master. “All will be well if I can only touch Him, even though I can’t because of my uncleanness. But if I can at least touch His robe. I know even that would be enough.”

So she moved closer, knowing she had to be close to Him. “Just one touch, and all will be well. Just one touch. Even to just touch the hem of His robe.”

Touched by the Master

And she was right. She knew it right away. And so did the Master. “Who touched me?” He asked, turning around.

“What do you mean, Lord?” his disciples queried. “The whole crowd is pressing around you! How can you ask such a thing?” They didn’t understand what He was talking about. But Tamar knew. She had been healed, mind, body, and soul.

So she fell at His feet in fear and trembling. And remembering that He came to call the sick and the sinners, she poured it all out. All the anguish and heartache of her young life.

And the Master said to her what He still says to those who seek Him today. “And he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace. Your suffering is over.” (Mark 5:34 NLT)

One touch is all it takes when it’s the Master’s hand!

Signora Sheila

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This fictional rendition of the woman with an issue of blood is based on Matthew 9:20-22, Mark 5:25-34, Luke 8:43-48.

📷 Image credits: woman weaving by David Padfield/FreeBibleImages.org; both baby & Jesus eating by http://www.LumoProject.com | graphic made on Canva