Lately I’ve found myself lingering over the how necessary it is to look to Jesus to show me how to live. I’ve always been fascinated by the three moments in the Gospels when Jesus speaks in Aramaic—the everyday language of His people. Mark’s Gospel preserves these words with such care, almost as if he wants us to hear the tone, the breath, the intimacy of Jesus’ voice as He restores life and opens what has been closed.
“Talitha cumi.”
Little girl, I say to you, arise.
A child’s hand held in His own, a household caught between grief and hope, and Jesus speaks a word that crosses the boundary between death and life. It is not dramatic. It is tender. A whisper that wakes her.
“Ephphatha.”
Be opened.
Here Jesus looks to heaven, sighs—a prayer deeper than words—and speaks a command that loosens what has been bound. Ears open. Tongue loosens. A man steps into a world he can finally hear.
“Rise, take up your bed and walk.”
A paralytic who has waited years by the water hears a word that restores what he thought was lost forever. The command carries the same root—qum, rise, stand, be lifted.
What strikes me is how physical these moments are. Jesus doesn’t simply heal souls; He restores bodies, relationships, dignity, movement, breath. His Aramaic words are not magic formulas. They are invitations—spoken into places of death, silence, and paralysis—calling people back into life.
And I wonder:
Where in my own life is Jesus still whispering Talitha cumi—rise, wake, begin again?
Where is He sighing Ephphatha over what has grown closed or guarded?
Where is He telling me to stand, to pick up what once held me down, and to walk forward in freedom?
These ancient words still call me today, showing me how to live. They still open. They still raise. They still restore.
Smitten With Goodness 