I heard the story and could not help but feel exposed, as if someone had read my diary aloud in front of the entire church.
It was the story of a woman considered to be disgusting and dirty beyond repair; a repulsive image, and so revolting and filthy that touching her required hours of cleaning.
She suffered a hemorrhage for twelve years. For twelve years she had been tormented by her own ailing body, out of her control, feeling unwanted, unloved, and far from beautiful.
Until the day Jesus walked into her life.
I felt that way. I still do some days. No, I do not suffer a hemorrhage, but I felt tormented for years by the demon whispering lies in my ear every second of every day: anorexia. I felt disgusting. I felt like someone loving me was an impossible feat, and a luxury I would never deserve. Beauty was unreachable. Inadequacy was my defining character.
Until the day Jesus walked into my life.
Like the woman in the story, I was beyond afraid of simply calling Jesus' name. I was unworthy to let the name of power and glory be carried on my breath. If I called on Him, I would be exposed. My thoughts naked before Him, and how ugly those thoughts were. Thoughts that betrayed Him, that denied Him, that were filthy, dirty, and full of lies.
As I recovered in the hospital, I knew I had to simply say His name. Jesus. It was the most simple beginning to an extravagant journey of healing; beyond my own imagination. I whispered it with a simple hope flickering in my heart, and Jesus took it and transformed it into a great and inextinguishable flame!
Like my sister in the story, who only wished for her illness to end, I just wanted my heart to beat again, and perhaps for me to be able to eat a few meals without bursting into tears. I felt unworthy of even asking for a fix to my problem, let alone a deeper healing that I did not even think I was deserving to ask for.
He said to her, "Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace."
Peace. Love. Acceptance. New Life.
While I cowered expecting my King to look upon me with disgust, all I could accept from His sweet and forgiving presence was a simple gift:
"Rachel, your faith has made you well. Go in peace."
My peace is freedom from the chains of disordered thinking. My peace is knowing that I am not of the flesh, which I once worshiped over my God as part of a disorder that threatened my life. My peace is seeing that I live each moment with a new purpose because Jesus saved me in every sense of salvation.
What will your peace be when you make that bold yet beautiful act of faith that will transform you beyond your most beautiful conception of recovery?
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