On the edge of a slowly moving crowd, sits a woman. A woman for whom everything had failed. All of the things this world said should work failed. Even her previous attempts to get to Jesus had failed.
She might have concluded that she had no hope of ever getting to talk to Jesus and ask for healing, and therefore there was no hope. But, no.
If I may but touch his garment, I shall be whole.*
Sure it was less than ideal. Just a touch. All her strength, all her courage for one little touch. But there was no time to consider that it might not be enough. It was the most she could do.
And there the one who gave all she had, though it seemed far too small in her need so great, found that all is enough. Not what seems reasonable, not what the world says is enough.
Just a touch--all she could do.