It is recorded that one day the crowds were pushing in on Him to such a degree that his disciples thought the question “who touched me?” was totally absurd. Who touched you? Everyone did.
It is recorded that on that day one woman touched Him and was healed. Only one. Who touched you? Oh. She did.
Shaking misplaced teasing dreams of a beach out of my head, I woke to the chilled remains of what had been a massive comedic Thanksgiving dinner for a random assortment of school staff. Dusty footprints in the carpet, Christmas tree slightly leaning with its haphazard array of ornaments, piles of sweet potato casserole encrusted dishes stacked in the sink. Saturday morning.
A student from a class that I no longer teach waits in the frigid morning air. She is unusually tall, typically shy, with long black hair tied neatly in a bun and tucked under a cap which reads 'rocking'. We make our way to a nearby teahouse, carefully choosing the sunniest patches of sidewalk. Bursts of nervous giggles and stuttered English tell tales of her recent practice teaching experience. The small students have lovely face but are so naughty. Sometimes be a teacher is so hard work. I am nervous my first time. We enter a large teahouse and order the largest thermos of sweet milk tea that only two people have a chance of consuming. Instinctively, we pull our jackets and scarves tighter around us to ward off the lingering night cold that the sun has not been able to penetrate. A glance at the grimy crumbling windows leaves little hope that it ever will.
Stories, memories, questions, jokes... an entire semester that she's been away practice teaching. Pilgrims file in and out, bowls of noodles at nearby tables appear, are doused with spice, and vanish, grungy dogs root around under tables for even the most fossilized scrap of food. And then this: remember you give some pictures about Christmas? I also use. I teach Christmas lesson. Christmas lesson! That's great, I'm happy you can use the things from our class. This is the Christmas story you give us. Wait, you taught about baby baby Yeshu, yes, first I make into Chinese, then teach. Ms Kelly, these small students never hear this story before. They have so many questions. Questions! For example? They want to know is it true story, I say I not sure. Yes, it is true story, but very old. It happened in the past. Oh yes, I remember. Also, they all want to know if I have seen this baby. I told them my teacher sees.
Last year I taught that Christmas lesson to one hundred and sixty students. At the time, they had only studied English for one semester.
The crowds were pushing in, one woman, in desperation, dared to touch just the hem of His robe. Knowing that power had gone out of Him, He turned and asked, “who touched me?” There, across the narrow warped table, over orange transparent cups of rapidly cooling sweet milk tea, in the cold bustling tea house, in Lhasa, came the answer. Let it be recorded that all of my students were present when that lesson was taught last year. Who heard that Christmas story? They all did.
It is now recorded that throughout the year only one student has ever mentioned, much more, taught it to other students whom I, nor any other foreigner, are likely to ever have contact with. Only one. Who heard that Christmas story? Oh. She did.
And power went out.
