Just then a woman who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years came up behind him and touched the edge of his cloak. –Matthew 9:20, NIV
She couldn’t take the loneliness, the desperation of not returning to her family. She was tired and frustrated; her heart couldn’t take any more rejection. The distance society put her, the distance the Pharisees forced her to slide on, and the putrid conditions of the last twelve years of her life… And she clamored for death, but death didn’t even listen to her dire plea. (Life was her own hell; why would she need to suffer what she suffers day after day?)
That is, until she heard the Messiah was in town. That hairy Nazarene, born near the intersections of Blasphemous and Fornicator, peering through the streets of Jerusalem, provoking the wrath of the Pharisees: that man was The One. Crowds crowded him when He paced to the Temple or to some horrible, suppurating house. Rumors spread around town, that when He walked, the sand parted from the ground He walked on! They even said the spit on His eyes had some sort of magical power that can give sight to the blind!
The crowd pressured Him. When she saw the Messiah, her eyes suddenly turned to long for His face. In a brief glimpse, she saw His face that distilled eyes of fire-brilliant, poignant, eyes of fire.
It was at that moment when she stood up on her own two feet, blood dripping down her womb, and race through the crowd.
There was nothing else she could do. She was desperate. She had no choice. The blood dripped away from the womb.