When Hope Bleeds Away

Happy Friday, friends! I’ve never scheduled certain things on certain days on this blog (I’m just not that organized) but I am hoping to change that beginning today. Welcome to True Fiction Friday! Yes, it’s an oxymoron. And yes, people usually call this sort of thing ‘historical fiction’. But, hey, I’m a fantasy writer 😀 I can’t be caught switching genres that drastically! Plus, #TrueFictionFriday makes a nice hashtag, right?

One reason fantasy appealed to me when I began writing as a busy mom, was the lack of research involved–my world, my rules. Saves time. Which is another reason I’m calling this ‘true fiction’ rather than ‘historical fiction’. I’m not going to delve into much research for a blog post, and so I hope you’ll forgive me if some of the details don’t align perfectly with the past.

What I hope to do here, is to take a scene from the Bible and imagine it from one person’s perspective. The event will be true, but I will fill in the blanks that the Bible doesn’t mention as a way to put ourselves in that person’s place. I pray it will breathe a fresh perspective into these stories, for both writer and reader. Actually, I’ve already written one of these scenes with my Long Suffering post (which posted on a Thursday, so I’m not sure if it counts 😉 )

Please let me know what you think, as well as if there is a certain story/person/scene you’d like to read about in future #TrueFictionFriday posts 😀

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I awake to sunlight angling through the woven palm fronds which pass for a door to my tiny hut. Squinting, I roll away from the glare, aware of the sticky, damp cling of my blood-soaked garments. The blood, as usual, has soaked through the rags that I bind about myself every night, but I can tell it’s gone well beyond those layers.

With a frown, I lift onto an elbow and assess myself. I must’ve thrashed about because the layer of straw I placed beneath me–in order to protect my pallet–has mostly been pushed off the narrow bed. Now, my thin mattress has a bigger stain than ever, and I wish my hut had more than one room so I didn’t have to see the filthy thingy whenever I’m inside. Actually, I want to burn my mattress and my rags and never see a speck of blood again. Last night was one of my worst bleeds in recent memory, and now I feel weak. Weak and dirty.

After years of dealing with this issue of blood, you’d think I’d be accustomed to all the ways it shames me. Most women are unclean once a month, but it is a rare month that I am free of bleeding for more than a few days. It’s left me with a permanent home outside the gates of the city where the unclean gather. No sense in moving my things back to my family home for a few days, only to have to return to the wastelands again.

I do try to find the bright side of this continuous menses, this sentence of separation from society. For one, I’ve gotten to know many of the women in Jerusalem to some degree, since they all end up near me when they’re on their cycle. That is, until they get pregnant or are nursing a babe—then it might be two years before they’re back here again.

Still, they are kind and remember me; some send bread or dried fruit as a way of saying hello while they’re away. They all pity my plight and pray for me. If I am clean long enough to enter the city, I try to seek them out and meet their new little blessings.

It’s hard, though. Children will never be a part of my future—what man would want me? The Lord knows how I’ve prayed, how I’ve sought out healers and experts, how I’ve subjected my body to experimental herbs and diets in the name of a cure. But, hope has bled out along with my lifeblood.

Hope is as thin and weak as my body, these days.

Until recently, anyway.

I’ve been hearing about this man called Jesus and his radical teachings. Of course, who hasn’t heard about him? Jerusalem is buzzing with word of his miracles and his authoritative instructions that stir up the rulers of the temple. They say the Pharisees really, really dislike the man! Perhaps it’s sacrilegious of me to find that humorous but, well, not one of them haver ever been remotely kind to me.

So isn’t it ironic that the day that I’ve summoned enough courage and hope to seek out this Jesus of Nazareth, I awake to this horrible mess? Sometimes I wonder if God really loves me or if the devil just hates me more.

Well, what have I got to lose? I heard that this Jesus claims we only need faith the size of a mustard seed to see great miracles. Can you believe that? An itty bitty mustard seed? I thought I had at least a small measure of faith but mine must be the size of a grain of sand. I wonder what God can do with faith that small?

Outside, I clean myself up, standing behind yesterday’s laundry—something I can accomplish with practiced ease after so many years. Plunging my soiled garments into the wash basin, I scoop in a bit of vegetable-ash soap and agitate the water while pondering the mystery of faith and the fragile substance of hope. Are they any more tangible than one of these opaque bubbles of soap?

I hope so.

That makes me laugh. Am I hoping to have hope?

So it would seem.

I’ve heard such amazing stories about Jesus that it seems, for the first time in a long time, I feel the substance of hope thickening inside of me—sort of like the calluses I get on my hands when I chop wood for my stove.

You see, I know of a lame man named Titus, who used to beg along the road where I sit during festivals. I haven’t seen him for several months. My friend Miriam told me it’s because Titus was healed by this Jesus and he can walk! Miriam has seen him at the market, she’s listened to him telling many about his miracle. She also reports of blind men being healed and has heard rumors that Jesus brought a dead child back to life.

Surely this Jesus must be the long-awaited One. Surely he is the Messiah!

Stopping this cursed issue of blood would be nothing—nothing—compared to giving blind eyes sight or breathing life into a dead body. That is my hope.

I wring out my bed clothes, then hang them on the line. Last night’s rags will need to soak awhile so I leave them in the basin and hurry to ready myself. Miriam said that today this Jesus would be coming back to the city with his disciples. Which means I need to claim a place along the roadside early, if I am to see him.

I want to be close–but I won’t attempt to get his attention. Surely everyone will be clamoring for a touch from the man. I couldn’t ask him to lay hands on me, an unclean woman, and pray. But if he’s as powerful as everyone claims, that won’t be necessary.

I slip my sandals on and grab a handful of figs for breakfast. Heading back outside, I stop and ponder my reflection in the dirty water that covers my rags. Am I an untouchable, unlovable woman? Or am I a daughter of Abraham, the man who believed God’s promise of a child for his barren wife Sarah?

Abraham had faith.

I will choose to be his daughter today as I wait for this miracle man, Jesus.

Adjusting my headscarf, I turn away from the mucky water and set my eyes on the distant gates of the city. I’ve got a plan…

I won’t try to be heard above the crowd. I won’t elbow my way through the throng (who would only cast me aside anyway).

No. I will sit along the path—foot level, where I can remain unnoticed—and, when Jesus comes near, I will simply touch the hem of his garment.

He will never even know I was there.