And The Bleeding Stops

Go dtuga Críost do lámha íseal chun leighis, agus do chroí bog don domhan a rinne Sé—May Christ give you humble hands for healing, and a soft heart for the earth He made.

This is the Word of the Lord that came to me, that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing, you may have life in His name. Amen.

Aunt Nora Garland could stop blood.

She didn’t carry a scalpel. She carried a verse from Ezekiel in her heart and in her tongue, and breath enough to draw the fire out of burns. When the cows kicked and the skin split, when the heel-string tore clean in two with a broadaxe, she didn’t rush to the clinic. She wrapped a dressing round the wound, called on the Lord, and chanted that verse three times, never missing a word. Because miss one, just one, and the blood wouldn’t stop.

She didn’t need to know your name. You could be in New York or Chechero. It didn’t matter. She’d sit on her porch, smoking a pipe, think of you, and pray. And the bleeding stopped.

“From the heart,” she said. “It don’t work if you charge money. It don’t work if you leave out a single breath.”

Now… tell me this: What kind of world have we made, when a woman like that would be mocked today? What kind of people have we become, when the very soil that birthed us is sterilized, sprayed, and paved?

You were clay, once.

Not a body count. Not a tax ID. Not “human capital” or “demographic leverage.” You were clay. Damp earth and breath. Muck and marrow. Formed from the same stuff that grows turnips, calls robins, and cradles the roots of dogwood trees.

And Eden… Eden wasn’t a theme park or some sanitized veggie patch. It was wild. Sacred. A gardened wilderness, old as starlight. Trees grown thick with story. Rivers that remembered God's hands. You weren’t its master. You were its priest. Barefoot. Soaking up the dew. Tending what you did not plant. Blessing what you could not own.

And then came the reach. The grab. For knowledge, but not the kind that kneels and names the beast. The kind that cuts, counts, and claims. And that’s when we started bleeding.

Because we forgot. We forgot how to ask the tree for a branch. We forgot how to speak a prayer before taking a cutting. We forgot that fire hides in a burn until it’s drawn out by breath, and poultice, and faith.

And look now: Lawns like burial sheets. Fields that don’t feed. Schools that don’t teach. Churches that market grace like it’s toothpaste. Men who can build skyscrapers but not raise sons. Women who birth machines instead of memory.

And so we hunger.

We hunger like that crowd in Mark 8. Four thousand with dust in their teeth and ache in their bellies. Not for ideas. Not for power. Just for bread.

And Christ… what does He say? Not “Behold a miracle.” Not “Here’s a five-point plan.” He says: What do you have? They say: Seven loaves.

Not enough. It never is. But in His hands, it becomes Eden again.

He blesses what’s broken. Feeds what the proud would throw away. And it isn’t a stunt. It’s a remembering. It’s the hush before birdsong. It’s warm bread passed hand to hand. It’s fish still glinting with sunrise. It’s the touch of the Healer in the clay.

Because Christ is not an idea. He is not an algorithm or a seminar or a “brand identity.” He is spit and dust. He is blood and balm. He is the Word that heals, when you say it faithfully. He is the breath that draws the fire out.

And He has not forgotten the garden.

So what will you do?

You who were born of soil and Spirit, You who have asphalt underfoot and pixels in your eye. Will you go on forgetting?

Or will you remember?

Will you till the ditch where mint grows wild? Will you trade your lawnmower for seeds? Will you let your children dig and bleed and learn the names of trees?

Will you memorize a verse from Ezekiel, not to preach, but to stop the bleeding?

Because one day, the system won’t save you. The clinic will be closed. The phone will go dark. And then what?

Then maybe you’ll remember Aunt Nora Garland. Maybe you’ll remember Eden. Maybe you’ll speak the name of Christ for healing. Maybe you’ll kneel in the clay and breath in His breath again.

Because in the end, it isn’t a return to the beginning. It’s the beginning remade.

Not the old Eden, but the Garden made flesh. The Holy Mountain where the Healer walks, Still barefoot. Still breathing. Still blessing bread and breaking death.

So kneel. So eat. So pass the loaf with low hands and a soft heart. Because Christ is here. And Eden is opening again.

He doesn’t carry a scalpel. He carries the whole Word in His marrow, and breath enough to raise the dead. When the soul splits and the blood runs crooked through every house and heart, He doesn’t reach for thunder. He kneels. He takes the loaf in His hands. He looks to the Father. And He speaks, not a word out of place. Because miss one, just one, and the healing won’t hold.

He doesn’t need your résumé. Doesn’t ask for a clean shirt or a bloodline. Doesn’t care if you were in Gerasene or Galilee or crawling through shame just to touch His robe. He sees you. He thinks of you. And He prayed. And the bleeding stops.

Because He is the Healer. And Eden is still in His breath.

Go dtuga Críost do lámha íseal chun leighis, agus do chroí bog don domhan a rinne Sé—May Christ give you humble hands for healing, and a soft heart for the earth He made.

This is the Word of the Lord that came to me, that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing, you may have life in His name. Amen.