He hadn’t stopped, he had just paused

By T. John Philips, SJ

The most painful sound I had ever heard was not the cry of a wounded man or the wail of a mother at a funeral. It was the faint, uneven breathing of my daughter as she lay dying. She was only a child. Her little hands, which once reached for mine without hesitation, lay motionless beneath a thin blanket. Her lips had lost their colour. Every breath seemed to demand an effort her tiny body could no longer afford. I sat beside her, rubbing her fingers between my palms as though the warmth of my touch could persuade life to remain.

“Please, my child,” I whispered. “Just open your eyes.”

She did not respond.

Nothing had prepared me for this helplessness. I had faced difficulties before, but there had always been something I could do, someone I could approach, some decision I could make. Now I could do nothing except watch the person I loved most slip beyond the reach of everything I knew. What if she died? What if I never heard her voice again? What if the last thing she remembered was my face filled with fear?

When I was struggling with these painful questions, the woman who lives next door came to tell me about this teacher who healed the sick. She said he was in their town. I did not know what to make of it, but desperation had stripped me of the luxury of doubt. I left my house carrying a prayer that had become too urgent for words.

When I found him surrounded by a crowd, I pushed my way through and fell at His feet. I did not care who watched. I was no longer a man concerned with dignity or reputation. I was a father terrified of returning home to see his child dead.

“Please,” I begged. “My little daughter is dying. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may live.” My voice broke.

He looked at me. Then he began walking with me. I hurried beside Him, impatient with every obstacle between us and my home. I imagined my daughter opening her eyes when he touched her, sitting up, asking for water, perhaps even smiling at the fuss everyone had made over her. I held these images tightly, afraid that if I let them go, despair would take their place.

Then He stopped.

Nothing had prepared me for this helplessness. I had faced difficulties before, but there had always been something I could do, someone I could approach, some decision I could make. Now I could do nothing.

A woman had come through the crowd. She had suffered from bleeding for twelve years. Having heard about him, she had come from behind and managed to touch his garment, believing that even the slightest contact might heal her.

Now he had stopped walking. He turned towards the crowd and asked who had touched him. I stared at Him, certain I had misunderstood. Surely he knew why I had come. Surely he understood that my daughter was dying. I looked towards the road, then back at him, waiting for him to move again.

He did not. The woman came forward, trembling, and began telling him her story: her suffering, the money she had spent, one failed attempt after another, the moment she felt her body change when she touched his garment.

The crowd listened. I stood beside him, unable to settle my feet. My hands clenched and unclenched. Why did he stop walking? How long will this take? The crowd looked at the woman with wonder. I looked at the road with dread. I felt ashamed of my resentment, but shame only added another weight to the burden I was carrying. I did not want her story to end badly. Yet I worried if the delay would kill my daughter.

I looked at the man beside me. He was still listening to the woman. For the first time, a painful question rose in my heart: Does he understand what I am going through? I hated myself for thinking it. I had fallen at his feet and begged him to come. H did not. I felt more helpless than I had felt before I found Him.

Then he spoke to her, gently. “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.” Daughter. The word went through me. He had called this woman, a stranger to him until a few moments ago, his daughter, while my own daughter lay dying at home. I did not know whether to weep or to hope.

While he was still speaking, a messenger appeared. There was something in his face that made my stomach tighten. He slowed as he approached. His eyes met mine for an instant before falling to the ground. I knew. Before he spoke, part of me of me already knew.

“Your daughter is dead,” he said. “Why trouble the Teacher any longer?”

I heard the words, but my mind refused to accept them. He said nothing more.

“Dead?” The word escaped my mouth as a whisper. My knees weakened. I reached for something to steady myself, but even the ground beneath me seemed to shake. The crowd blurred. The voices around me faded into a distant murmur. I could hear only one thought repeating itself inside my head. I am too late.

Why did he stop? Why did he have to listen to the woman’s whole story? Why did we have to wait? Then came the question I could hardly bear to think: If he had not stopped, would my daughter still be alive?

“Do not fear; only believe.” Believe? The word felt almost cruel, though I knew he had spoken it with compassion.

I wanted to run home and reach her before anyone could tell me what had happened. I wanted to push past the messenger and demand that he take back his words. I wanted to strike the ground and scream at the heavens. But I could not move.

The woman stood nearby, her healing complete. I could not look at her without remembering the time we had lost. I hated the resentment that grief had planted in me. And I hated myself for being unable to feel anything beyond the loss that was swallowing me.

Then he turned towards me.

“Do not fear; only believe.” Believe? The word felt almost cruel, though I knew he had spoken it with compassion. My daughter was dead. The messenger had seen it. The future I had imagined had vanished in a single sentence. I had believed enough to seek Him. I had believed enough to fall at His feet. I had believed enough to walk beside Him. Now I had nothing left to hold.

He continued walking towards my house. I followed. I do not know how I managed those steps. My body moved, but my mind remained behind, caught in the moment when the messenger had spoken. Every step brought me closer to the truth I dreaded and farther from the hope I had carried when I first found Him.

When we reached the house, the sound of mourning rose to meet us. The rooms that had once echoed my daughter’s laughter now seemed to hold nothing but grief. He entered. I followed Him into the room where my daughter lay. There she was, still, silent, beyond the reach of my voice. He approached her and took her hand.

“Little girl, arise.”

I stopped breathing.

Nothing happened.

A second passed. Then another. I stared at her face, searching for the slightest movement. My heart pounded so violently that I could hear it in my ears. I was afraid to hope, but I could not look away.

Then her fingers moved. So slightly that I wondered whether I had imagined it. I leaned forward. Her chest rose. Her eyes opened. I reached for her, touching her face, her hands, her shoulders, needing to know that she was real. She was warm. She was breathing. She was alive. My daughter was alive! I drew her into my arms. I held her close, unable to speak, while tears fell without restraint.

I looked at the man who stood beside us. And only then did I begin to understand the pause. Until that moment, I had seen only the delay. I had counted the seconds and felt anger rise whenever He stopped to listen. When the messenger announced my daughter’s death, I was certain that the pause had cost me everything.

But He had stopped for a woman whose suffering had lasted twelve years. He had listened to her when she came forward in fear, and He had called her daughter. And when I believed my own story had ended, He had continued walking with me. What a fool I was for mistaking His stopping for indifference. Yet He had never abandoned me on that road. The pause I had cursed was the very place where He made ready to show me that even death was not beyond the reach of His hand.

His name was Jesus. And I was Jairus, the father who had almost mistaken His pause for stopping. He had paused to make sure that I could see him rescuing my daughter from the cruel hands of death – that I could finally understand who He really was – the Son of God.

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