Stretch it Out

I never asked for this. I never imagined my life would turn out like this—crippled, broken, trapped in a body that betrayed me. My left hand, the one I once used to build, work, and to provide, had withered. Over time, it became nothing more than a lifeless appendage hanging at my side. I can’t even recall exactly when it started. One day, it just felt weaker, and over the years, it wasted away. 

The pain wasn’t just physical. In fact, that was the least of it. The real agony came from how people looked at me—how they *didn’t* look at me. I felt like a failure, like less of a man. Unable to work, I couldn’t provide for my family. I remember how the other men in my village would avoid my gaze. They didn’t mean to, I suppose, but I could feel their pity. It gnawed at me, that helplessness, that quiet sense of being *incomplete*. And no matter how hard I prayed or tried, nothing ever changed. 

Every day, I carried the weight of being a burden to my family, my community, and myself. I had tried everything—doctors, prayers, remedies—but nothing could undo what had happened to my hand. It was as if I was cursed, left to live in the shadow of what I once was. Deep inside, I struggled with the bitterness that was growing within me. "Why me?" I would ask God. "Why should I be condemned to this life?" 

That Sabbath day started like any other. I went to the synagogue as usual, more out of habit than hope. But there was something different in the air that morning. I heard whispers of His name—*Jesus of Nazareth.* They said He was coming. Some said He was a prophet, others said He was a miracle worker. I didn’t know what to believe, but I was curious. And I’ll be honest, I was desperate. Maybe, just maybe, this man would see me. Maybe He could help.

The room was more crowded than usual. I found a spot near the back, trying to blend into the shadows as I always did. Then, He walked in. Jesus. He wasn’t what I expected. There was nothing particularly remarkable about His appearance, but there was something in His presence that made the air feel electric, like something was about to happen.

And then, out of all the people in that crowded room, He looked directly at me. It felt like time stood still. His eyes—they weren’t like the others. He didn’t look at me with pity or disgust. No, He saw me—the real me, the man behind the withered hand. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as He called out to me.

“Stand up in front of everyone,” He said. I froze. My mind was screaming, *No, don’t do it! Don’t draw attention to yourself!* I didn’t want the stares. I didn’t want to be the spectacle again. But something in His voice, something in His eyes, made me move. My legs carried me forward before I could think, and there I was, standing in front of everyone, my useless hand dangling at my side.

I could feel the Pharisees watching closely, their judgmental eyes burning holes through me. They were waiting, too, but for a different reason. They wanted Jesus to slip up, to break the rules. It was the Sabbath, after all, and healing was considered “work.” They were more concerned with the rules than with mercy.

Jesus knew exactly what they were thinking. He turned to them and asked a question that cut right to the heart: “Which is lawful on the Sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to kill?”

Silence. They didn’t care about me. To them, I was just a tool to trap Jesus, but He wouldn’t have it. He turned back to me. His face was a mixture of righteous anger and deep, aching compassion. Then He spoke directly to me, “Stretch out your hand.”

I can’t explain it, but in that moment, something shifted inside me. I had spent years trying to move that hand, willing it to come back to life, only to fail time and time again. But when He said those words, I didn’t think about what I couldn’t do—I just obeyed. I stretched out my hand.

And in that instant, it happened. The shriveled skin stretched, the muscles came back to life, the bones straightened. My hand—my hand—was whole again! It was like a wave of warmth and life had rushed through my body, restoring everything I thought I had lost. I moved my fingers, flexing them, clenching my fist, and tears welled up in my eyes.

The crowd gasped. But I hardly noticed. I was too overwhelmed by the reality of what had just happened. I was healed. I was *whole.*

But as I looked around, I saw the faces of the Pharisees—hardened, angry. They didn’t rejoice. They didn’t celebrate. They couldn’t even see the miracle for what it was. All they saw was their broken rules, their shattered expectations. They left the synagogue in a rage, plotting against Jesus.

But I didn’t care. In that moment, I knew the truth. This man, this Jesus, wasn’t just a healer. He was something far more. He didn’t just see my hand; He saw the pain beneath it, the brokenness in my heart, the years of shame and struggle. And in a moment, He had restored it all.

I left that synagogue that day a new man. But it wasn’t just my hand that was healed—it was my spirit, my identity. I had lived in darkness, thinking my condition defined me, that I was beyond hope. But Jesus showed me that no one is beyond hope. No struggle, no limitation, no habit is too great for Him to overcome.

And here’s the thing: I’m not alone in this. My story isn’t just about a man with a withered hand—it’s about all of us. We all have something that’s withered, don’t we? A part of us that’s broken, lifeless, a habit or a struggle we’ve tried to fix on our own but keep failing. Maybe it’s anger, or addiction, or fear. Maybe it’s a deep wound that no one else can see.

We try and try to overcome it, but we just can’t. And we feel like we’re less because of it, like we’re trapped in a body—or a life—that doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to. But here’s the truth: we don’t have to stay that way. Jesus sees us, just like He saw me. He knows the struggles we hide. And He’s not waiting for us to fix ourselves before we come to Him. He’s just waiting for us to trust Him.

When Jesus tells us to “stretch out our hand,” He’s calling us to take that first step of faith. He’s not asking us to fix ourselves—He’s asking us to let Him in, to let Him do what only He can do. And when we do, He brings healing, not just to our bodies, but to our hearts, our souls, our lives.

I was that man with the withered hand. But I’m not anymore. And neither are you. Whatever your struggle is, whatever feels broken beyond repair, Jesus is ready to heal it. You just have to trust Him enough to stretch it out.