Lord, Let Me See You as You Actually Are

There is a moment in the Gospel of Mark that I thought I knew well. Jairus, a synagogue leader, comes to Jesus because his young daughter is dying. He falls at Jesus’ feet and begs Him to come. Jesus agrees, and they set out for Jairus’ home with a large crowd pressing around them (Mark 5:21–24).

There is urgency in this story. A father is waiting. A child is dying. Jesus needs to get there. At least, that is how I instinctively read the scene.

Then a woman reaches for His clothes. She has been bleeding for twelve years. She has suffered under the care of many physicians, spent everything she has, and grown worse instead of better. She has heard about Jesus and believes that if she can simply touch His clothes, she will be healed. She makes her way through the crowd, touches His garment, and immediately she is (Mark 5:25–29).

Jesus stops.

He knows that power has gone out from Him and asks, “Who touched my clothes?” The disciples are bewildered. Everyone is touching Him. The crowd is pressing in from every direction. But Jesus looks around to see who has done it (Mark 5:30–32).

I have often thought about this story as an example of Jesus seeing a person when everyone else sees a crowd. And it is. But lately I have been wondering whether there is something else here that I have been too familiar with the story to notice.

Everyone in this scene seems to understand what Jesus should do next. Jairus needs Him to hurry. The woman seems to believe a touch will be enough; she can be healed without interrupting Him. The disciples cannot understand why Jesus would ask about one touch in a crowd full of them. Soon, messengers will arrive from Jairus’ home with the conclusion that seems most obvious of all: his daughter has died. There is no longer any reason to trouble Jesus (Mark 5:35).

Every one of those conclusions makes perfect sense within the boundaries of ordinary human experience.

Jesus does not seem bound by any of them.

He does not hurry past the woman. Nor does He simply keep walking once her physical healing has occurred. He stops, looks for her, and waits while she comes forward trembling and tells Him the whole truth. Then He says to her, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering” (Mark 5:33–34).

One word has made me see the story differently: Daughter.

Mark tells us that this woman has suffered for twelve years (Mark 5:25). A few verses later, he tells us that Jairus’ daughter is twelve years old (Mark 5:42). For twelve years, one daughter has been growing up in the home of a father who loves her enough to fall publicly at Jesus’ feet and beg for her life. For those same twelve years, another woman has been suffering. We are told of no one advocating for her. We do not even know her name. She enters the story identified by her affliction and hoping, perhaps, to receive what she needs without ever being noticed.

Jesus notices her. And He calls her Daughter.

There are two daughters in this story.

Their stories are not the same, and Mark gives us every reason to experience one need as more urgent than the other. One woman has suffered for twelve years; one little girl is dying now. Everything in us understands why Jesus should keep moving.

And perhaps that is part of what makes this moment so remarkable.

We rank needs because, with limited time and limited capacity, we have to. We triage. We prioritize. We decide what cannot wait and what must. But Jesus does not seem bound by the limits that make our ranking necessary. He can stop for the woman who has suffered for twelve years without losing sight of the twelve-year-old girl whose father has begged Him to come.

Perhaps because those limits are so natural to us, we begin to impose them on Jesus. We read the scene with our own sense of urgency: Hurry. She is dying. Don’t stop now. The woman is already healed. You need to keep moving.

Then, while Jesus is still speaking to the woman, word comes from Jairus’ home. His daughter has died. The messengers’ conclusion is painfully logical: “Why bother the teacher anymore?” (Mark 5:35). The opportunity, as they understand it, has passed.

But Jesus never behaves as though the interruption has placed Jairus’ daughter beyond His reach. What must have looked like a devastating delay does not change what He is capable of doing. He tells Jairus, “Don’t be afraid; just believe” (Mark 5:36), and He keeps going.

I find something deeply comforting and deeply unsettling in that. I am accustomed to thinking in terms of scarcity: not enough time, not enough attention, not enough capacity. If something is given here, surely something must be lost there. If an opportunity passes, it may be gone. If help does not arrive in time, perhaps it is too late. Those are realities of being human.

But sometimes I carry those assumptions with me when I look at Christ. I put Him inside the limits by which I understand everything else. I assume my definition of urgent must be His, my understanding of timing must be His, my assessment of what can still be done must be His.

Maybe learning to see as Jesus sees begins even earlier than I have thought. Before asking Him to help me see the person inside the crowd, I need to ask Him to correct my vision of Him.

Lord, let me see You as You actually are.

Not the Jesus I have made manageable through familiarity. Not the Jesus constrained by my understanding of urgency, timing, scarcity, or what is possible. But the Christ who can give His full attention to the person before Him without losing sight of the person waiting for Him. The Christ who can stop for one daughter without losing the other.

I have read this story many times. I knew about the crowd, the touch, the healing, and the little girl who would live (Mark 5:37–43). But perhaps familiarity with a story can sometimes keep us from being astonished by the Person at its center.

So I am returning to the scene. A desperate father is waiting. A crowd is pressing. One daughter has suffered for twelve years. Another has lived for twelve years and is dying. Jesus stops, and everything in me that understands urgency wants Him to keep moving.

This time, I want to resist that impulse. Before asking what His stopping teaches me about how I should see others, I want to watch Him a little longer.

I want to see Him.

August 29, 2026. Originally published on LinkedIn.