the hem of His robe
The woman bled for 12 years straight. Physician after physician shrugged his shoulders. She’d given up all hope of ever getting better. But then she heard about Jesus: the miracle worker. Desperate, she knew she had to get to Him.
As she clawed her way through the crowd on her hands and knees, she carried with her much more than her illness. She carried shame. As if in a bag over her shoulder, she dragged along a heavy burden of rejection and fear. She’s referred to as the “woman with the issue of blood”, but her issues ran much deeper than that. Her physical ailment made her an outcast in her own culture. Her emotional hurts and scars were far worse than her physical ones.
Finally catching up to Jesus, she reached out and frantically, yet faintly, grabbed the hem of His robe. Immediately, she was healed. Jesus turned around and faced the crowd. “Who touched Me?”
She told Him the whole truth. She told why she had touched Him and how she had been instantly healed. Jesus cared enough to listen to her story. The long version. He just let her talk. He was on His way to heal a dying girl. People were rushing Him. Pressing Him. Insisting He keep going before it’s too late. He silenced them long enough for her to tell her story.
When she finished talking, He responded by calling her Daughter. It’s the only time recorded that He addressed someone that way. The love she felt in that one simple word must have been overwhelming. After pouring out her heart, He’d responded with pure affection. Gentle but aggressive love.
If Jesus’ aim was simply to heal her, He would have kept walking after she touched Him, for she was healed instantly. If that was all He was concerned about, He wouldn’t have stopped, turned around, asked the question. He wouldn’t have looked straight at her, talked to her, listened. But He did all those things. He wanted to let her talk. To tell her story. He wanted to call her Daughter.
For that is when her heart was healed.
He wanted to heal more than her body. His aim all along was to heal her heart.
I can picture Him looking her in the eyes as He talked to her. And making her look into His. The healing began as, face-to-face, His love was visible, and it resonated within her soul. It broke down walls. Shattered barriers. Smashed through the defenses she’d lived behind for so long. His love broke through with a simple gaze, a listening ear, and undivided attention.
It wouldn’t have helped if He healed her physically, but left her to still carry the hurt from her 12 years of rejection and disgrace. Despite her physical healing, she probably would have continued to stay holed up in her house. She would have been the same cowering little girl she always was, still dragging her bag of shame behind her. But as Jesus looked into her eyes, He saw the woman He created her to be, and He wasn’t content to leave her drowning in her pain.
The greatest healing isn’t the miraculous cure of her incurable disease. It is the passionate healing of her heart.
God’s primary concern is still the condition of hearts. Physical health and a blessed life pale in comparison with a restored soul. God’s heart hurts for our hurting hearts.
He still brings love, grace, and healing through a touch of the hem of His robe.
And we are the hem of His robe.
[originally posted this day two years ago]
the truth about myself
“You’re so confident and self-assured. You’re not insecure like most women seem to be.”
My face scrunched up into a question mark. I wanted to look over my shoulder to see who he was really talking to, because there’s no way that description fits me. Definitely the wrong size. Send it back for a refund!
I laughed and said, “Really?!” My voice went up about 6 octaves at the end of that one word. (I was clearly dripping with self-assuredness!)
And while I still think what he said was a bit far-fetched, I also know that others see in me things I don’t see in myself. Even more, I know that God sees in me so much more than I see in myself.
I want eyes to see those things.
Not so I can pat myself on the back. Or even so I can feel better about myself.
I want eyes to see those things because He put them in me. And to ignore them—or worse, to never even uncover them—would be a slap in His face.
So today I am praying, “Lord, help me to realize the truth about myself, no matter how beautiful it is.”
[from a post this day last year]
authenticity by the slice
The me you see here at The Grit is genuine.
It’s not all of me, but it’s not a fabricated form of me either. While I don’t share everything about myself or the things going on in my life, what I do share is authentic. I’m not a different person “in real life” than I am in the blogosphere. In person you’ll see and discover more aspects of me, but it’s all still me.
The Grit shows only a slice of who I am. But it’s a genuine slice. No artificial ingredients, I promise.
I give you me.
And I am honored humbled overwhelmed grateful to have been given you in return. I treasure my blogging friendships. You’ve helped to shape, challenge, encourage, and inspire me. In ways I never could have imagined.
Thanks for reading. And commenting. And sticking around.
For even caring to get to know this little slice of me.
[from a post on this day last year]
something is stirring
On Sunday, Mma Impo received word that her father passed away. She and her daughter were planning to leave Botswana later that day to come to Qwa Qwa, South Africa to attend our women’s conference. The news that her father passed away shook her, but did not deter her. Her daughter arrived, assuming they would have to cancel their plans and go to their home village to make funeral arrangements. “No,” Mma Impo said. “Going to Mahalapye will not bring him back. God comes first. We are going to Qwa Qwa. God has something for us there.” So they came.
Their expectancy was evident. The look in their eyes said that they were expecting an encounter with God. It was visible in many others’ eyes as well. The women were hungry. Eager. And God did not disappoint. The sessions were powerful, the ministry times were sweet, and the women’s lives were changed. They were challenged, inspired, encouraged, motivated, and stirred. They left with a clear vision and sincere passion to be used by God in their communities.
One of the women was visibly suffering from advanced stages of 
AIDS. She was emaciated to the point of skin and bones, her cheeks were sunken and sallow, her gait was strained and slow. When she came forward for prayer, I had the opportunity to minister to her. My heart broke. I began to weep as I hugged her; it felt as though I was hugging a skeleton. She pressed through her pain and discomfort to attend the conference, longing for a touch from the Lord. I believe she received one; her face, amid the suffering, radiated joy from within. Her presence at the conference also provided me a touch from the Lord, as He gripped my heart once again for this beautiful, precious woman and the countless like her who are dying across South Africa.
From Botswana to Qwa Qwa, a revolution has begun. Brace yourself. Something is stirring in Africa.
[originally posted this day three years ago. i needed the reminder.]
letting go
Sometimes it’s easier to feel guilty than forgiven.
All-too-often I choose to cling to my mistakes, my shortcomings, my depravity rather than to embrace the forgiveness and freedom that God has for me.
It takes effort to make that exchange, and—honestly?—sometimes I’d just rather not put in the effort. How pathetic is that? Especially since He already did the hard part.
But God’s power has no effect in my life if I don’t choose to receive it and rely on it. I don’t want to nullify His power with my apathy.
I recently spent time letting go of some things I’ve held against myself for way too long. As hard as forgiveness can be, I find it most difficult to forgive myself.
Sitting alone in a “service” at St. Arbucks Church, I made the choice to let go. To forgive me.
After all, He already did.
And what I hold against myself, I’m ultimately holding against God. I’m basically slapping Him in the face and telling Him that His redemptive work isn’t good enough. That I can do a better job atoning for my sin than He can.
Pride can’t often see herself in the mirror. But I saw her loud and clear.
So I acknowledged that His work was final—that my sins are not only forgiven but paid for. And I made the decision to step out of the prison I’d locked myself in for so long.
I left a lot of crap in Starbucks that night.
And I got a venti cup of forgiveness to go.
[from a post on this day last year]
this day last year: bare-handed
The story of creation is an incredible one. For so many reasons. But mostly because it shows me so beautifully the unmatched worth we have in God’s eyes.
God spoke everything into existence, which is a whole mind-blowing thing right there. “Let there be…” and there was. That is just incredible in a way I can’t fully comprehend.
There God was, balancing between time and eternity, forming galaxies, hippos, mountains, and clown fish with His words. But when He created mankind, He used His bare hands. He stooped down to make us great. Words would not suffice.
He wanted us to bear His thumbprint.
He loved us enough to form us with His own hands. He wanted to hold us, rhythmically massage our hearts to kickstart their first beats, and be the first thing we saw when we opened our eyes. I imagine that our first case of goosebumps came from Him caressing our skin.
And then He breathed into us. Face to face, we inhaled our first breath as He exhaled into our nostrils. I cannot even fathom the worth, the wealth, of that breath of life.
God still wants to get down and dirty with me. When my life is a mess or it feels like I’m wallowing in the mire of my emotions and circumstances, it’s easy to think God is far-removed from it all. But He’s right here in the dirt next to me. It’s nothing new to Him. He’s been there, done that.
And more than willing to do it again.
[from an entry originally posted this day last year]
