Perhaps she awoke early and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness of her small windowless room, she raised herself from the straw mat, always lined with extra cloth below her hips, and donned her tattered floor length tunic. Grabbing her threadbare veil, she wrapped it over her head, as much in hope of concealing her identity as in obeying the custom of her day. A dull hunger pang passed over her as she fingered her empty coin pouch, her last denarius spent. Wondering if anyone might have mercy on her for her daily bread, she stepped out of the room as the first beams of sunlight rose over the seaport village of Capernaum along the northern shores of the Sea of Galilee.

For a dozen years she’d suffered, the unceasing flow of blood wrecking her life. An outcast and unclean, she was unable to marry and have a family, or even worship in the synagogue. She’d spent all she had, her money paid to physicians in this and every nearby town in hope of healing. She’d tried the medicines, the herbs, the diets, the baths; all they’d told her to do, she had done.  Nothing had worked, rather she was worse.  A dozen years of loneliness, pain, misery, isolation, exhaustion.

Perhaps Jairus awoke early to the rushed voices of his servants in the grandeur of the home he shared with his family. The angst on their faces immediately told him something was awry. Following them down the wide hallway, he looked into the room to see his beautiful 12 year old daughter laying on her plush bed, her dark hair wet with sweat from the sudden fever ravaging her usually healthy body. Twisting in pain, she moaned in heart wrenching agony between heavy gasps for air that didn’t seem to come. As he stepped out of his house and saw a crowd of people gathered around a wooden fishing boat anchoring on the seashore, he knew his little daughter was dying.

For a dozen years, she’d filled his home and life with light and laughter. Precious to him from the day of her birth, a million images flashed in his mind- her tiny hand gripping his thumb as she nursed at her mother’s bosom, her giggles as she learned first to crawl and then to walk, her walking beside him and chatting happily as they walked to the synagogue or along the seashore, her dark eyes sparkling as she played with friends. A dozen years of joy, delight, bliss, health, happiness.

As Jesus stepped from the boat and into the throng of people awaiting him, both the woman with the issue of blood and Jairus, the ruler of the synagogue knew He was their Only Hope, the Only One who could heal an infirmity of a dozen years, or heal a sudden illness to sustain a dozen years of life. Both knew they had to get to Jesus.

His faith the fire beneath his feet, Jairus ran quickly through the streets of the town he knew so well. Surely word of his dying daughter had spread by now and the crowds parted to let this prestigious man with such a worthy and pressing need pass through and get to Jesus.  Falling at his feet, he begged Him greatly that He might heal his daughter.  As Jesus walked with Jarius, the crowds followed, longing to see what miracle might occur for this ruler of the synagogue.

But, the throngs neither cared about, nor parted for, the bleeding woman trying to make her way to Jesus.  Unworthy was such a woman to part the crowd of people. The fortitude of her faith pressing her on, in humility, she came behind Him, desiring not to interrupt His other work and knowing that if she could but touch His clothing, she could be healed.  Her pale hand outstretched, casting herself forward at risk of being trampled by the crowds, her thin fingers made contact with the tassels on the edge of His outer tunic.  The flow of her blood stopped and immediately she knew she’d been healed of her disease.  

And the Savior stopped, perceiving the healing power that had gone out from Him.  The woman, in fear and trembling, came forward, falling before Him and telling Him the whole truth.  “Daughter”, He spoke, the first words of inclusion and acceptance she’d heard in a dozen years, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.

Perhaps the crowd marveled, wondering why Jesus would pause on His way, would waste His time on such an unclean woman as this who had been bleeding for a dozen years, rather than hastening on to heal the 12 year old daughter of the prestigious Jairus.  Perhaps some felt outrage toward the woman or toward Jesus when those from Jairus’s house ran up and told him his daughter was dead and to trouble Jesus no more.  For He might have power over sickness in life, but surely that power stopped once death had taken the body.  Surely His healing power could have best been used on the vibrant young girl they had seen in the town and at the synagogue.  Surely the healing of the unclean woman had hindered the healing of the child. 

Comforting Jairus, Jesus pressed on, for His power over a dozen years was not yet complete.  Putting out those who doubted and scoffed, He entered the room of the child with only her mother, father, and those closest to Him.  Taking her hand, He spoke, “Little girl, I say to you, arise”, and the power of death could hold her no longer! Immediately, she got up, her life of a dozen years restored.  

Twice in that day was the power of Jesus made manifest, conquering a dozen years in just a few moments. For thousands of years since, the testimony of Jairus and the woman with the issue of blood have lived on, each of their stories proclaiming that the power of Jesus is not bound or restricted by time, circumstance, or status.