No one dared go near him—until one man did.
The voices quieted when Eli entered the village.
Not that he truly entered. He stayed on the outskirts, as always—shrouded in tattered cloth, face half-covered, hands hidden. The bell tied around his wrist jingled with each step, a cruel reminder that he was marked. A leper. Untouchable. Unwelcome.
He hadn't felt the warmth of another human hand in years.
When he passed children, they ran. When he passed merchants, they turned their backs. His world had narrowed to shadows and whispers, his days measured by scraps of bread and distance kept.
But today, he had heard murmurs of someone new.
Jesus.
The name had been carried in hushed tones through the olive groves, spoken with trembling reverence. A man who healed without potions. A man who saw without judgment.
Eli had no right to hope—but he did.
He waited by the roadside, half hidden behind a rock. His heart thudded as the crowd appeared in the distance. He could see the man now—calm amidst the noise, his robe dusted by the wind, his gaze steady.
Eli didn’t think. He stepped forward.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"Unclean!" someone shouted.
Eli fell to his knees.
“Lord,” he said, voice cracking, “if you are willing… you can make me clean.”
The crowd drew back in horror. But Jesus did not.
He stepped forward.
Closer.
And then—he touched him.
A hand, warm and firm, settled on Eli’s shoulder.
No one had touched him in years. Not since the priest had confirmed what the sores already knew. Not since he had been driven from his home, from his life.
Now, this man—this healer—reached out without flinching.
Jesus spoke softly. “I am willing. Be clean.”
Eli didn’t feel a jolt or a surge of fire. He felt stillness. Peace. Like the silence after a storm.
He looked down at his hands.
Clear.
His skin—whole.
His breath caught in his throat.
Tears blurred his vision.
He looked up, but Jesus had already turned, moving again through the crowd, leaving behind whispers of awe and the echo of mercy.
Eli stood slowly, stunned. His arms were his again. His name, too.
He wasn’t untouchable anymore.
And yet, something in that touch had marked him deeper than the disease ever could.
He would never forget it.
And he would never again withhold what had been given to him so freely.
No one dared go near him—until one man did.
The voices quieted when Eli entered the village.
Not that he truly entered. He stayed on the outskirts, as always—shrouded in tattered cloth, face half-covered, hands hidden. The bell tied around his wrist jingled with each step, a cruel reminder that he was marked. A leper. Untouchable. Unwelcome.
He hadn't felt the warmth of another human hand in years.
When he passed children, they ran. When he passed merchants, they turned their backs. His world had narrowed to shadows and whispers, his days measured by scraps of bread and distance kept.
But today, he had heard murmurs of someone new.
Jesus.
The name had been carried in hushed tones through the olive groves, spoken with trembling reverence. A man who healed without potions. A man who saw without judgment.
Eli had no right to hope—but he did.
He waited by the roadside, half hidden behind a rock. His heart thudded as the crowd appeared in the distance. He could see the man now—calm amidst the noise, his robe dusted by the wind, his gaze steady.
Eli didn’t think. He stepped forward.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"Unclean!" someone shouted.
Eli fell to his knees.
“Lord,” he said, voice cracking, “if you are willing… you can make me clean.”
The crowd drew back in horror. But Jesus did not.
He stepped forward.
Closer.
And then—he touched him.
A hand, warm and firm, settled on Eli’s shoulder.
No one had touched him in years. Not since the priest had confirmed what the sores already knew. Not since he had been driven from his home, from his life.
Now, this man—this healer—reached out without flinching.
Jesus spoke softly. “I am willing. Be clean.”
Eli didn’t feel a jolt or a surge of fire. He felt stillness. Peace. Like the silence after a storm.
He looked down at his hands.
Clear.
His skin—whole.
His breath caught in his throat.
Tears blurred his vision.
He looked up, but Jesus had already turned, moving again through the crowd, leaving behind whispers of awe and the echo of mercy.
Eli stood slowly, stunned. His arms were his again. His name, too.
He wasn’t untouchable anymore.
And yet, something in that touch had marked him deeper than the disease ever could.
He would never forget it.
And he would never again withhold what had been given to him so freely.
