The Unclean Woman

The woman sat along the side of the road, alone in the crowd. No one recognized her. She might as well not be there. She was a woman of means, or had been once. Lauded for her works and her personality. The center of the social scene.

Now, money gone, she was reduced to this. She didn't care about the money or the attention. She just wanted some slice of what she'd had before. When Jonathan had died, he'd left her a good deal. She would never want for anything, and as a result, instead of moving in with her son, as was custom, she stayed on her own. Her son lived three days' walk away. Leaving would cut her off from everyone she knew and loved. The synagogue--this synagogue--was her life, even if she wasn't really a full member as the men were.

She laughed as she remembered. They'd been able to help so many, yet when she became...inflicted...when she became inflicted, the nature of her affliction cut her off from the same type of help she'd given so many others.

She was unclean. It wasn't that she could do anything about it. She couldn't. Neither could anyone else. All of Jonathan's money had gone to people who'd tried and failed. And, by Law, she wasn't allowed to be part of anything. She could live, though she's increasingly had to beg for food. She just couldn't be part of anything. Her life, once so rich because of her ability to be part of something, was barren.

Though she was cast out as unclean, she's still dared talk to G-d, approach Him and beg him for restitution. She didn't care about the money or the opulence. She missed the people. Elizabeth and Hannah and Ruth and Deborah, all of them. She could see their faces with her eyes open, even. Hear their voices. Feel their embrace, though not one had dared touch her in more than a year. Hannah had at first, which made her unclean, too. After a couple weeks, Levi had demanded she stop. He'd been spoken to about propriety and having an unclean wife, even if she were helping someone.

This morning, when she'd gotten up, she'd thought once again about ending it. She could walk out into the desert more than a day out, and wait for the end. Of swim out in the sea. With her luck, someone would stop and save her, bring her back, then understand what she was and cast her out again.

But as soon as those thoughts had faded, and they usually did, new thoughts replaced them. When she'd said her morning prayers, she'd first noticed the impulse. As she continued, it had grown stronger, until she was almost propelled to this spot where the throng had gathered. As she sat and waited, she became curiously peaceful. When she needed to do something, she'd know. She wasn't quite sure how she'd know, but she'd know.

Meanwhile, she sat. She supposed that if this didn't work, it could be the last thing. She could walk into the desert and disappear. Move away from the main roads and wait for final peace. She'd always found solace in those thoughts before, but this morning, something within her rebelled against them, almost violently, to the point where she stood up rather abruptly without even realizing it.

The crowd had changed now. Instead of milling around, the people were directed at something. At someone. When she following the focus of attention, she found herself watching a man walk away. He wasn't much of a man. In a fight, he'd be worthless. He was sinewy and small, but for a second her eyes met his and something happened within her.

Without realizing it, she followed him. She was drawn to that man, to his eyes. There was something about him. She followed him as if propelled at first, almost as if she were driven. She tried to fight it at first. After all, what could this simple little man have to offer her, the filthy, unclean widow? The embarrassment to herself and God that everyone avoid.

She didn't have to push anyone. Somehow they just moved to allow her to get closer. Before she knew it, she was within a man's height of him, then within arm's length. She saw her arm reach out to his cloak and though she thought it might be good to pull it back, so this stranger would not be unclean like she was, it touched him. Actually, she only got his shawl.

Whatever spell had driven her to him, and it must have be insanity borne of loneliness, it broke when she touched it.

What have I done? She thought. She slid away through the crowd, unaware that they had stopped because the man had stopped.

"Who touched me?" she heard the voice say. It wasn't much of a voice and he hadn't spoken loudly, though somehow she heard it above the din.

"What?" another man asked. She turned to face them. The other man was much bigger and had a dark tan and calloused hands. He looked rough. "Master, there are so many people here, how could you ask who touched you?"

"I felt the power go out of me," the slight man said. "Someone touched me."

The crowd now understood that something had changed and how now stopped and started looking around. She swallowed. This would be it, she thought. This would be the final humiliation before she allowed death to claim her. He would curse her for making him unclean and then she could die.

She looked at him, met his eyes again, and suddenly, she felt naked and vulnerable, as if all her secrets were known to him. She felt little, worse than she'd felt since the discharges had started.

"Who touched me?" he said softly, looking at her with those piercing eyes that knew everything.

"I did," she said, her voice so soft she could barely hear it. She trembled now and felt her own frailty more fully than ever before. The crowd parted before her and she approached the man. She felt like crying, like laying everything out to him and asking him for comfort. Instead, she fell at his feet. She knew her place and it wasn't speaking as an equal to this man. Although she'd tried to live a good life, G-d had obviously cursed her for something.

"I've had a discharge for a year. I'm unclean and nothing can stop it. I'm sorry to have made you unclean, too, sir. Please let me go so I can die in peace."

She could see the grains of sand before her eyes as she wished for the end of her now-pathetic life.

Then, she felt his hand on her back. This man knew she was unclean and yet he was touching her. The soft and gentle touch, almost a caress reminded her of Jonathan and she closed her eyes and pushed back tears.

"Get up," he said to her gently. She sat back so she was kneeling in front of him and he put his hand out. She extended hers to him and he lifted her from her kneeling position.

"Thank you," he said. His voice soothed her, like a thousand harps. Slowly she raised her head so that she looked him in the eyes again. She felt a jolt of fear. Somehow she knew this man knew all about her. But the fear quickly subsided.

"Why did you touch me?"

"I-I don't know," she said.

He smiled at her and she swallowed. His gaze was unflinching, uncompromising, but she was coming to realize that it wasn't threatening.

"Why did you touch me?"

"Oh my Lord," she heard her voice say. "I just want so much to be clean again."

She burst into tears, unable to stop them, magnifying this, her final, most public humiliation. He reached up with his other hand and touched her cheek, raising her face to his.

"Shhhh," he said. "My daughter, your faith has saved you. Go now, in peace, offer the appropriate sacrifice to God who loves you, and be cured of your affliction."

"What?"

"I promise you," he said.

"Ye-Yes, my lord," she said. He smiled at her again and squeezed her hand, then turned from her. She was homeless now, and there weren't many places a woman could find privacy, but she finally found one and looked and the discharge was gone. The stains in her clothes were gone. It was like it had never happened. She felt to her knees and wept again as the realization of her new circumstance saturated her. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up again.

"Hannah," she said.

Hannah smiled at her and took both her hands and helped her to her feet.

"Welcome home," Hannah said.