I am sitting in the same room that I sat in three months ago, looking at the same tile floor and empty, bare walls. I am waiting for that familiar knock at the door, waiting for the footsteps to follow, for the man in the mask to come and make his way into the room so that we can discuss my health, how my body hurts, and how to make me well.
He stares at his computer and traces his finger over black and white images on the screen and mumbles some things about the shape of the swell in my neck. And, for a moment, I am tracking and following his finger. For a moment, it feels like he is finding the right answers to satisfy my aching questions — until I realize that he is reciting the same words he said to me the last time I was in this room. The whole moment begins to feel like déjà vu — except it’s not déjà vu, and this isn’t all in my head because this is real and really happening, and the pain is all really in my body.
The pins and needles, the headaches, my blue-tipped nails, and the pounds packed onto my hips. The dry patches on my neck, the waves of nausea that come crashing in, and the chest pain — it’s real, not at all a figment of my imagination, not at all some dream that I am replaying in my head.
He tells me that the nodule on my thyroid is benign, and I tell him that was three months ago and that the thing has since grown, has since been compressing and constricting the space in my throat. Has since been hurting and felt unwholesome and heavy. I tell him it is time to do more because, benign or not, whatever the growth is, it’s not good.
I tell you this story that happened not even a week ago because I know I am not the only woman in the world that’s felt like the woman with the issue of blood (Mark 5:25-34). I know I’m not the only woman who’s tried everything, exhausted every option, and is at the end of the rope when it comes to her broken body.
I know I’m not the only woman that’s just desperate for some holy hand to touch her body and make her well again, not the only woman in the world that feels unnamed and unknown in a sea of crowded faces.
Maybe that is you today. Maybe that’s been you for many days.
But you are not just a woman, and you are not just any woman.
You are not a number in a crowd; you are a name in the Kingdom — and the King knows your narrative.
Our Jesus is not some doctor sitting at a desk, face turned, reading results off of an insentient screen. He is a Savior that sees your soul and knows your story of suffering.
He sees your health, and He saves your heart. He calls you close, and He calls you His own.
I do not know about the sickness that is swelling in your body right now. I do not know whether you’ve been walking this road for a thousand miles or if you’ve just set out, one weak and weary step at a time. I do not know if the pain is in your bones or in your blood, if the growth is in your skin or deep within, or if the disorder is in your heart or in your head. I do not know if you wake to swallow big, white pills, or if your only chance of survival comes through the thin of syringe needles pushed in unholy places. I do not know if you wear the wounds on your skin or if the illness is invisible, leaving you to fight hard-believed battles.
But this I know — that Jesus does not turn away the ones who turn toward Him. And however powerful the push and pull of the crowd — whether the pressure looks like shame and condemnation or simply their own selfishness to be the first to find and follow the famous Savior — it is you that He sees, you that His eyes will always turn to see.
He holds you in His sight, because breaking your anonymity is part of your healing.
He holds space to hear your heart, because affirming your need for confession is part of your healing.
He holds your heart for eternity, and it is for more reasons than just your healing.
It is about the Son and how He is wholly the only source of holistic hope — for sickness and suffering and sin — from now on through eternity.