The Boy with the Basket

A narrative inspired by imaginative prayer

Photo by Andrea Scully on Unsplash

“Ima, please! I have to go now, or I’ll miss him!” There is no rushing my mother. Especially when there are mouths to be fed. “He only arrived this morning, where is he going to go, hm?” she replied, while filling a basket with five loaves of fresh barley bread. “But the miracles,” I plead, “I don’t want to miss one!” Rumors had been flying about this carpenter from Nazareth. Healing the sick in Capernaum and Jerusalem, speaking with teachers of the law boldly and without fear. And now he had crossed the Sea of Galilee to our small fishing village. I couldn’t wait any longer to see him, to hear what he said, to finally have news of my own to share.

“I’m still not sure this is a good idea,” Ima hedged. “This Jesus was friends with that man who was killed, the one who eats bugs and dunks people in the river, wasn’t he?” I grit my teeth to restrain my eyes from rolling, my mother needs to be in a good mood to agree to let me leave this morning. “Yes, Ima, but most of his close friends are fishermen, from around here!” She nods slowly. In our world, fishermen are reliable, dependable, and they know the value of patience. All things she has told me countless times; she will trust the fishermen to judge Jesus’ character.

“But the teachers aren’t so sure about him,” she starts to say. I cut her off with, “Have you heard what he’s done? The official’s son who was miraculously healed. The man lying at the Sheep Gate. All Jesus had to do was speak! How can healing others be bad?” She tutted but remained quiet; carefully placing two dried fish into the basket alongside the bread.

“Well, this miracle man probably won’t think of earthly things like feeding himself – much less the fools who follow him. So, I packed enough for you both.” She snaps. “Both? You packed lunch for Jesus?” I ask, utterly astonished at her actions. “Well, if you’re going to trapse off with his fishermen, you may as well be sure he’s fed. He may need food to do his healings.” I can see that she is still wary, but something I said must have softened her. I decide not to mention the fact that getting anywhere close to Jesus will be impossible. People throng to him wherever he goes these days. Somehow, I doubt we will have a cozy lunch the two of us.

“Thank you, Ima. I know he will appreciate it as much as I do.” I throw my hands around her waist and feel her chuckle gently rock her frame. “On with you. I need to prepare for Passover, and you need to bring back an amazing story. Maybe he will talk about fishing this time, yeah?” And with a ruffle of my hair, she sends me on my way.

My feet cannot fly fast enough. The soft soles of my sandals skid and slide as I take the turns down the gentle incline that leads from the docks to our village. I scan the shores for only a moment before I see the crowds gathering at the base of a nearby hill. A family I recognize from temple is weeping at the outskirts. The father is clad in sackcloth, ashes and dust rubbed into his hair. He raises his hands and lets out a yell like I’ve never heard. I’m unsure whether to avert my eyes from this display or draw closer. “She can walk,” he chokes out, “Jesus healed her!”

My heart fills with joy for this family, these kind people who gently carried their daughter to temple each week. But a small part of me, a hidden pocket I dare not examine for the shame of it, is jealous I missed the miracle. He’s already been healing people, talking to them and teaching. What else have I missed? Will I ever have a story of my own to share?

I push through the crowds, trying to get closer to Jesus, but the day passes in a blur. Groups of people have formed to ask for healing for a family member or friend, they work as a unit to gain a spot. Jesus takes compassion on them and is clearly healing their sick because the shouts of joy, astonishment, and thanks continually meet my ears. Then a large group of bustling, wildly happy people will push past in the other direction – you’ll get swept up in it if you’re not careful.

Then the crowds start to settle down and people stand still to listen to what Jesus has to say. I can see him, I think, but the group higher up the hill that faces us has over a dozen men and women. And they all look, well, like fishermen. Like any men from my own village would. None of them shines with a heavenly light, they each look browned from the sun, with hair that is course and dark like mine. I want to get closer, to see if I can tell Jesus apart once I get a better look. My small frame means I can squeeze between groups, but considering my head only comes to most men’s shoulders I have some difficulty knowing which way to maneuver.

I’ve finally worked my way to an open space, only to realize I’ve reached the far end of the crowds that make a semi-circle around Jesus. I can now see the backs of those standing near Jesus. My feet are tired, and I sink down beside a scraggly olive tree. “I missed all of it,” I sigh out.

“All of what?” a soft voice asks. I nearly jump out of my sandals. A head covered in a dusty blue wrap peeks around the other side of the tree. The face that looks into mine is wrinkled but not old, closer to my Ima than my grandma, and somehow, I know she’ll understand. “I wanted to see Jesus do a miracle,” I tell her. She nods and asks, “is someone you love ill?” Heat creeps up my neck, “no, no, I don’t need a miracle. I just wanted…to see one.” This feels like a lame finish, so I hurry to clarify, “I believe he can do it! I know he can! I just wanted to be able to say that I saw it, and tell people about it, about seeing it.”

She smiles at me. A smile that feels both comforting and like we’re sharing an inside joke. “I waited a long time to see him do a miracle, too. It’s so hard to be patient.” She replies. I think she may saw more but just then a man hurries up to her. “He wants us to feed everyone!” the man blurts out. Somehow this doesn’t seem to surprise the woman. “Well, are you going to listen to him, Andrew?” she asks. This Andrew looks like he wants to flee, he runs his hands through his already somewhat windswept hair. “It would take a year’s wages to buy enough to give everyone a single bite! We don’t have that kind of money.” He says, almost more to himself than us.

This is when I realize that Andrew was one of the men standing around Jesus (whichever one he was). Maybe Jesus was having some kind of meeting and wanted to feed those sitting with him? The important people who were talking to him, the town leaders, the teachers, the disciples. I could help! “I have some fish and bread!” my voice came out a little too loud, and with an embarrassing crack on the word “bread,” but both heads swiveled to me. “Thank you, dear, that would be very kind,” said the woman. Andrew nodded, looking unsure but buoyed by the lady’s words; then he rushed off to tell the convening group of Jesus’ friends.

Suddenly, what I’ve just offered hits me. 2 fish and 5 barley loaves are hardly enough for two people, not nearly enough for a full meal for Jesus and his important friends. “It isn’t much…” I hedge, speaking with my head down to the woman now standing beside me. She gently places her hand beneath my chin, tilting my face upwards, and replies, “any gift given from the heart is precious.” That’s when I notice the man standing behind her.

His frame is average, his clothes a bit dusty, his hair as windblown as Andrew’s, but something in his eyes speaks of kindness and strength. I look back and forth between them as he smiles at her and says, “Mother, who is our generous friend?” The lady looks back at me, and I can hardly speak for the awe I feel staring at Jesus and his mother.

“Jo, Joseph” I stammer. Jesus and his mother share a look I don’t fully understand. It’s filled with understanding and a quiet sort of sorrow. He takes his mother’s hand as he says, “Joseph: God will increase, a great name. One of my favorites.” I nod, dumbfounded. “Did I hear correctly that you would be willing to share your meal with all these people?” Jesus asked.

I look at the crowds Jesus indicates with a sweep of his arm. He isn’t just motioning to his inner circle, or those close to him, or even just the men – Jesus just indicated sharing with everyone. “You should eat first!” I say as I nearly shove my basket at him. “You’ll need energy, to heal people.” Oh goodness, now I’m quoting Ima to him. He gives me an amused smile and says, “this is a lovely meal, and a generous gift. Come, let’s bless it together. There will be plenty for all. God will increase.”

And I watch as baskets are brought forward and Jesus blesses and breaks the bread, filling each basket to the brim. Then he does the same with my two fish. I help the disciples pass the baskets around to the thankful families gathered on the grass. When I return from my fifth trip, the lady in blue takes my hand and asks “Joseph, will you sit with me and have some food? Everyone has been served, and it seems we will have plenty.” I look at the baskets scattered around still holding bread and fish. “That cannot have all come from my basket…” I state, somewhat baffled. “You did say you wanted to see a miracle.” The lady replies with a smile.

“I was so busy passing out food! Did I miss it?!” I nearly cry. The woman laughs and pats my hand. “Joseph, my dear, you were a part of it! If you serve others with generosity and openness – not just the important people, not just your family, but all people – that’s when miracles occur. Even when it’s hard to see precisely how it happens.”

I nod slowly, keeping my hand in hers. “What is your name?” I ask. “Mary,” she replies, “it’s been so wonderful to meet you little Joseph.”

---

I love the practice of examining a well-known story through new eyes. How did this young boy come to offer the disciples his meal? Would he have met Mary? Where were his parents in this narrative? This particular story offered such rich food for thought because it appears in all four gospels: Matthew 14:13-21, Mark 5:34-44, Luke 9:10-17, and John 6:1-15. I pulled details from each gospel and their surrounding chapters to write this imagined perspective and found it interesting that only John mentions the loaves and fish come from a young boy in the crowds (6:9).

Ever since I researched the origin of the name Joseph while looking into the meaning of my daughter’s name, Josette, I have imagined the young boy who offers the fishes and loaves as Joseph. Perhaps it’s more poetic than everyday life generally allows for, but isn’t that part of the magic? Additionally, I wanted to incorporate the idea of Jesus and Mary sharing a moment of quiet remembrance for their Joseph. Many commentators believe that Christ’s earthly father’s absence from the narratives later in Jesus’s life indicate that he had already passed by that time. As we see with the narratives on Lazarus’ death, I believe Jesus would have deeply mourned the loss of his earthly father, and his grief is a spectrum of human emotion important for us to witness and recognize.

I enjoyed the process of crafting the relationship between two sons and their mothers. “Ima” (אִמָא) is the Hebrew term for “mom” and would have been used casually among family. The fact that John notes that Passover was near (6:4), and required a great deal of preparation by the women in the household, gave me the idea for why this young boy was skipping after Jesus with a sack lunch by himself. And imagining Mary as Jesus’ supporter, even when he is an adult, always brings me joy.

This was a long piece, and my notes shouldn’t rival its length, so I will end with one final point. My hope in sharing this outlook was to emphasize that Jesus chose to share with ALL. Pope Francis’ refutation of J.D. Vance’s twisted theological musings makes this point beautifully: "Christian love is not a concentric expansion of interests that little by little extend to other persons and groups. In other words: the human person is not a mere individual, relatively expansive, with some philanthropic feelings!...The true ordo amoris that must be promoted is that which we discover by meditating constantly on the parable of the 'Good Samaritan' (cf. Lk 10:25-37), that is, by meditating on the love that builds a fraternity open to all, without exception." Christ demonstrated this time and time again through his ministry and teachings. May we emulate Him in our actions.