The Touch

I remember the caress of a gentle breeze. I remember the prickle of warm sand under my feet, the sting of a fresh cut. I remember the touch of familiar skin, a mother’s lavish embrace, a brother’s firm hold. The cruelty of this affliction is that it takes everything but leaves the memories.

It is, above all, a disease of the soul, slowly consuming everything it means to be human. We are beasts, trapped in insentient tombs that over time bear but the faint likeness of man. Shredded clothes. Rotting skin caked in blood and dust. “Unclean, unclean,” we cry in the streets, carrying wooden bowls in the stubs our hands have become. On occasion, a merciful soul might fling a morsel our way, which we contend for with the dogs. But none dare approach. We are vestibules of God’s wrath, drenched in the sins of our people.

And so we consign ourselves to the trash heaps beyond the city walls, scavenging through the refuse of the living for our daily bread. We learn to hide, to disappear from their eyes. Our souls learn to embrace the numbness. Our hearts learn to relinquish hope, hardening themselves into impenetrable stone.

But there is a crack in everything.

There were no crowds, no guards, no one to go before Him. Indeed, He looked quite ordinary. But standing across an empty street, I sensed neither the familiar fear nor disgust. He did not scurry away like the rest. Instead, He stood there, drawing me in with an unwavering gaze and then, without warning, started to walk my way.

“Unclean,” I cried out instinctively, but the words slipped.

“Sir,” I implored Him. “I am leprous!”

He advanced nonetheless, and with every step, my entire being pounded, until He stood a mere arm’s distance away. He was a young man, skin darkened and aged by much time under the sun. Faded, thread-bare coat. Dusty, weathered sandals. Calloused labourer’s hands. And yet, I sensed a veil, desperately to hide something behind the skin of a common man.

“My Lord, I am impure. Do you not see?” I stammered in a thin, anguished whisper.

He said nothing but leaned forward, so close that I could feel His hot, steady breath on my face. And in His eyes, glistening with tears now, I saw myself: a broken, lonesome man from whom nothing more could be taken, every unholy lie, every foul thought, every crimson stain reflected with terrifying clarity.

“Lord, if You are willing, make me clean,” I cried out, thrusting myself towards His feet.

Muffled sobs. Tears and dust. A shallow beating heart echoing with cautious hope inside a tomb of stone. A deeply moved voice.

“I am willing.”

And then, He touched me.