My daughter’s body is curled on my chest, hot with fever. She is 18 months old, just discovering the joy of running everywhere, but this week her little legs lay still. She opens her eyes some, vaguely aware that Dory is getting lost for the 18th time on the blue of the television screen. The dishes stay in the sink, the laundry goes unfolded, and someone else carries out my lesson plans at work. My most important job needs doing, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.
If I but touch his clothes, I will be healed.
My young children seem to have the same insight as the woman with the hemorrhage: physical contact heals. When they are sick, just being in my arms is a form of treatment. There is Tylenol, nasal spray, popsicles, lots of rest, and being held by mom. This is my natural superpower: in making me their mother, Christ made me the hem of his garment, a conduit of comfort and pain-relieving grace. It is not much, to be held, but when you are suffering, when you don’t understand why or whether it will end, trusting the strength and assurance of the arms holding you might be all there is.
And so, I hold my daughter close. I let her sleep, cry, and press against me. Time stops at our house this week. My world narrows only to her. I know this week will end, but she doesn’t. This week, she gets all of me. More than the medicine, she needs me. My body next to her brings peace, healing the disquiet in her soul.
Years later, we have that same couch, and we still snuggle on it. She’s too big now to fit on my chest. Now, she lays close beside me. I don’t remember what was in those lesson plans I missed teaching that week. Likely, neither do those students who were there during my absence. Years ago, a youth leader of mine encouraged us to learn to distinguish in our lives between what is urgent and what is important. Often, he said, we neglect the non-urgent important things because the urgent things are pressing. They demand our attention and must be done in a timely way. But, he said, that time we neglect the important for the urgent adds up. Sometimes, we have to set aside what is merely urgent for what is truly important.
Jesus was on his way to heal a little girl that day in the crowd when the woman with the hemorrhage reached out to him for healing. And the touch of his garment did heal her. She got what she needed. Jesus could have just passed her by and continued on his way. He didn’t. He chose to stop and speak to this woman face to face. This woman who, for twelve years, had been ritually impure because of her illness and excluded from Temple worship. A little girl lays dying, but Jesus stops. He doesn’t let this woman go unnoticed. His touch has healed her, and still he takes the time to be present with her.
Were my students also important that week? Of course they were. And someone well-qualified was there, taking care of their needs. Who is qualified to mother our children in our absence? My daughter needed me that week. Me. My arms to hold her, my fingers to stroke the hair off her forehead, my voice singing her to sleep. The gift of presence is mysterious. As much as my daughter needed me that week, she will likely never remember that childhood illness. She won’t remember, but I will never forget.
Now that I’m home with them full time, do I still have that kind of clarity? How many times do piles of dishes and loads of laundry seem more urgent and pressing than my children’s requests to play Candyland? It can be a challenge, choosing the important in the midst of urgent messes. And I can’t neglect the things that need doing in our home every time. The challenge is doing them without forgetting that right now, my most important ministry is to let them crawl up on my lap and read a book.