He Calls Me Daughter

I was recently at a women’s ministry event that was unlike any I had ever attended. It was called a Silent Retreat and, in the style of Lectio Divina, centered on the repeated reading of Scripture alongside prayer, meditation on God’s Word, and time in solitude with Jesus, followed by a gathering to share what God had revealed during those quiet moments.

If you have read any of my other posts, you know that one of my chronic illnesses is a nervous system disorder that includes a significant sensitivity to noise, so much so that it can almost immediately bring on vertigo or, at the very least, a sense of imbalance. Needless to say, when I read the words “Silent Retreat,” I was thrilled to attend. It felt like a gift.

The passage that morning was from Mark 5 and focused on the woman who had suffered from chronic bleeding and was healed simply by touching Jesus’ robe. As the facilitator read the passage four distinct times, each reading brought new questions, and within minutes I knew God was at work.

I had heard this passage preached many times before, but this time I found myself wondering about the woman’s faith. Did she fully understand who Jesus was, or did she simply know He was her only hope? What exactly did she believe about Him?

At the same time, her story resonated with me in a deeply personal way.

While my chronic illness is far more hidden and does not carry the same cultural shame or exclusion, I can still empathize, in some small way, with the isolation and exhaustion she must have experienced. To be cut off from society, the temple, and close relationships; to be labeled unclean and unwelcome; to spend years seeking healing while growing increasingly discouraged, the weight of that must have been unimaginable.

Do not misunderstand me. I am incredibly blessed to be facing my challenges in a time and place overflowing with medical knowledge and resources. I would never compare the degree of my suffering to hers. I cannot imagine all that she endured. Yet God was quietly using her story to uncover something in my own.

Somehow, she believed that even touching His cloak might be enough. When she approached Him, it almost felt as though she was sneaking through the crowd in desperation, fearful and ashamed. She knew that, according to Jewish law, her condition would make others ceremonially unclean. Perhaps she believed healing was possible, but not necessarily meant for her, not something she could openly ask for.

I cannot help but think that years of being told she was unworthy, unclean, and unwelcome shaped the posture with which she approached Jesus.

She did not boldly call out to Him. She quietly reached, assuming she was unseen and unknown. When Jesus asked who had touched Him, she fell trembling at His feet, as though she feared she had taken something that did not belong to her, something she did not deserve.

At that realization, I began to see that this passage was uncovering something deeper in me as well.

The woman was not the only one approaching Jesus with assumptions about who was worthy of His attention, His healing, and His love. Even after years of following Jesus, serving in ministry, studying His Word, and experiencing His faithfulness in countless ways, there were still places in my heart that approached Him in the same posture.

Places that quietly believed healing and grace were for other people.

I wonder how many of us are still standing in the crowd, convinced that Jesus sees everyone else more clearly than He sees us; reaching for the edge of His cloak, hoping for healing but hesitant to believe we are truly welcome in His presence.

While the woman's healing was miraculous, I think the deeper miracle is found in Jesus’ response to her.

He did more than heal her body.

He drew her out of hiding.

He drew her near.

He called her “Daughter.”

Not “woman.”

Not “the one who touched me.”

Daughter.

In a moment, Jesus transformed what could have been a private miracle into a public declaration of belonging. Before speaking of her healing, He spoke to her identity.

As I sat with that truth, I recognized something of myself in the woman reaching through the crowd, hoping that even the edge of His cloak might be enough.

The healing I had been asking for was not the only healing I needed.

While I longed for Him to restore what was happening in my body, He was using my suffering to draw me nearer, uncover hidden wounds, and teach me more fully who He is. The very thing I wanted Him to remove became one of the ways He chose to reveal Himself to me.

The woman came seeking healing. Jesus gave her that and more. He called her Daughter.

Sometimes God's greatest gift is not the healing we ask for, but knowing Him more deeply as He draws us near.