My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
For the woman troubled with hemorrhage, Jesus was a last resort. She had tried everything else but it failed. Jesus was an after thought, and had there been anyone else to go to that is where she would have gone. We have a lot in common with her.
No comments:
Post a Comment