I was feeling so sad and tired today after the activism of the last few weeks. The sermon at church was the story from Mark of the synogogue official whose daughter was dying. He grabs Jesus and implores him to come heal his daughter. He was desperate.
But on the way, a woman who has been bleeding for 12 years, unclean, powerless, marginalized, has the audacity to touch Jesus’ cloak. He feels the energy leave his body and asks who touched him
The father has no patience for this. His child is dying. But Jesus isn’t to be rushed. He tells the woman her faith has healed her.
Meanwhile, the little girl has died. Jesus arrives at the house and sends everyone but her parents out and tells them she’s just sleeping. He tells her to get up, and she does.
I identify with both these people: the powerless, destitute woman and the powerful parent who is about to lose the one thing most precious to him.
I know I would have died gladly to save Michael, but I didn’t have that option. I know powerless; I know desperation.
I still feel it as I try to advocate for health care for all.
After church, Rob and I went to the place where we scattered Michael’s ashes. I was amazed to see a flaming azaela bush. I didn’t know that in April. It made me laugh because Mike used to call himself a flaming asshole.