It is almost noon. I arrive for Mass at a chapel where I love to be, located inside one of the largest hospitals in the area. As usual, I am not on time, but I always pause to look at the large painting that hangs right at the entrance. It is an image where Jesus extends his arm toward a sick little girl, who is cradled in her mother’s arms. I contemplate that scene quickly, but never with indifference; it always captures my attention.
When the celebration ends, I feel calmer and have more time to observe the artwork again. It seems that after experiencing the real Presence of Jesus, I am more open to noticing details that were previously invisible. And this is not limited to art. I notice a bandana on the head of the girl in the painting. She looked as though she were in a state of death. Upon reading the description, I confirm the biblical passage that inspired the canvas: the healing of Jairus’ daughter.
I see there the portrait of an interrupted future. That girl was twelve years old. In her culture and time, this was the exact threshold, the season of blossoming—the moment childhood was left behind and she began to prepare for full development, taking her place in the world and corresponding to the vocation given by God.
Every woman carries a gift within herself. Knowing one’s own dignity and the value she holds within the divine plan is what empowers her to transform the reality around her. But as I look at that young girl lying there, sick and already lifeless, it is impossible not to think of so many women of our time. How many today find their capacities completely cut short? Some have been paralyzed by physical ailments or by the silent pain of depression. Others have had their flame extinguished by external factors, traumas, or a severe lack of knowledge regarding the value they carry. They are alive, but just like Jairus’ daughter, they find themselves locked in a dark room, numb, lacking the strength to offer the world the beauty of who they were born to be.
Yet, there is Someone standing in the image. There is a hand over that girl’s head. A hand that does not weigh down, does not invade, and does not carry the harshness of a demand. It is Him: Jesus.
The touch of Christ belongs to someone who knows our frame. It is a gesture of welcome and tenderness. And the word that comes from his mouth is not an impersonal decree, but a familiar whisper: “Talitha cumi”. Talitha was not her name. It was a term of endearment, the intimate nickname parents used in the mornings of Galilee to wake their children. It is as if Jesus sat at the edge of that bed of pain and said: “Little girl, wake up. I am here”.
I imagine that as He leaned down there, He brought with Him all the sensitivity with which He always treated the feminine soul. It is impossible not to remember the golden thread that unites Jesus’ relationship with the women of the Gospel. We see this in the silent complicity with His mother, Mary, where a single glance at the Wedding at Cana was enough for each to understand the other’s heart. We see this in Mary Magdalene, to whom He gave dignity and the absolute certainty that she could count on Him—an assignment so profound that it made her the first witness of the Resurrection, the first to see Christ victorious over death. We see this in every woman He touched, healed, and reintegrated into life.
From what I am coming to know about Him, I believe Jesus has a very special love for those who are blossoming, because He knows that the Kingdom of the Father is built with them. He does not view them as bystanders, but as fundamental partners in life. And before that twelve-year-old girl, He bent down with the gentleness proper to His love.
Today, too, He knows the weight the world places upon our shoulders. Whispering Talitha cumi is like saying: “Calma, I want to demand nothing from you. I am only going to remind you of something that will gladden your soul”. When He says “Wake up, girl”, it is not a harsh command for her to hurry, but a patient invitation. Jesus looks at her—and at each of us who finds herself paralyzed today—with the gaze of someone who knows her history, values her essence, and says: “I know who you are, I know the gift you carry, and I am here to hold your hand while you awaken”.
All of this gains even greater strength when I think about where this painting is kept. It does not dwell in a distant museum or a cold gallery; it sits at the heart of this great hospital. A short time ago, living here in Wisconsin, I discovered an incredible history that changed the way I view this place.
When the community of Manitowoc faced a profound crisis, marked by the pains of economic depression and a scarcity of resources, there was no healthcare infrastructure to welcome its residents. Out of desperation, the leaders of the time turned to those who carried the strength of care in their souls: the Franciscan Sisters of Christian Charity. They asked them for a project, a path of relief for the population’s health.
What happened from that point on reveals the immeasurable strength that exists within a woman. Under the courageous leadership of Mother Alexia Fullmer, those sisters did everything to ensure this hospital would rise. More than bricks, they donated their very lives. They took nursing courses to care for the sick, worked at the front desk, managed the administration, and provided all the necessary human and spiritual support. They did not allow the difficulties of the era to interrupt the gift they carried.
Every time I look at that painting, I see something new. It comes to life precisely because it is here, in a space built by feminine hands—hands that worked in construction, in management, but above all, in welcoming and caring, gifts that were uniquely entrusted to us by God. It is what Saint John Paul II so beautifully called the “feminine genius”: that deep and particular capacity a woman has to welcome life, humanize reality, and see the other with the heart. Those gifts were put into practice here to heal thousands of other lives.
We do not know the name of Jairus’ daughter. The Gospel did not preserve it, and perhaps there is a sacred reason for that: that girl represents each of us. She represents us in every moment of life when something tried to stop us, steal the life we were given, or bury the talents we received. Whatever the circumstance—the pain, the exhaustion, or the forgetting of who we are—He is capable of entering our dark room, visiting us, and bringing us back. He restores our breath and makes us stand up to blossom in the gift that each of us carries as unique and unrepeatable.
In the story I retold today, the girl’s name was Alexia Fullmer. She heard that call, blossomed, and, with her, drew so many others around her to raise this place of blessing. But there is something stupendous to be realized through our participation as well. And if it brings you any relief, God’s “stupendous” does not necessarily mean the founding of a major institution.
In my case, sitting here and writing about this, sharing this message, already inspires me. As the words take shape, I feel such a great peace, a joy that radiates within me, as if that same gentle voice were, at this very moment, whispering in my ear: “Wake up, little girl, stand up. I have a secret to tell you”.
Dedicated to the Franciscan Sisters of Christian Charity, who with courage, faith, and their feminine genius transformed the pain of this city into a place of healing and hope.