The Knitting Theologian

This is a story about a prayer experience I had while on a five-day Ignatian Silent Retreat this past December. On the retreat we were working with an Ignatian prayer technique where you use your imagination to place yourself into a scene in Scripture, and you watch what happens. I was dubious about this. I had tried it before with no result except feeling faintly silly. But this time was different. I had a remarkable experience.

In order to understand what follows, you need to know that I am a completely driven overachiever and that I never think anything I do is quite good enough. But this experience overrode all that in a very profound way.

The passage I was working with was from the Gospel of John, chapter 6, verses 1-15, which is the story of the multiplication of the loaves and the fishes. I have always wondered who the little boy in the story is, and why did he have food, and how did the disciples find him. What follows is what I saw when I placed myself into the scene.

I am part of the crowd around Jesus on that mountain. A skinny girl, my hair just growing back from a fever I suffered during the past winter. They had to cut my hair because it became so matted as I tossed and turned. But I recovered, and now, four months later, I once again run and play with my brothers and cousins.

My little brother and I have wormed our way as close as possible to Jesus. I stare at him, fascinated at his brooding dark eyes and the sadness he wears like a cloak. I am a watchful child, and I listen. I know what the adults say about this man, that he performs signs and wonders. I want to see him perform a sign.

I hear him ask Philip about buying food, and I hear Philip’s reply. Then I remember the little lunch Mother packed for us—some barley loaves and fish—and pull the napkin that it is wrapped in out of my robe. I’m too shy to think of offering the food myself, but I know my little brother isn’t. I grab his arm and push the napkin at him.

“Here,” I say. “Give this to him.”

My brother stares at me. “But that’s ours. If I give it to him, what will we eat?”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “He works miracles, remember? Remember what Uncle Aaron told us? Just give it to them.”

My brother unwraps the napkin and gazes longingly at the barley loaves. They are his favorite.

“Go on,” I say. “I’ll give you mine at dinner.”

Just then, one of the men with Jesus notices us, and sees the food in my brother’s hands. I poke my brother in the side, and he walks to the man.

“What have we here?” the man asks. He is tired, I can see that, but he is not unkind. And he is a little less scary looking than some of the others. One of them looks downright mean.

My brother offers the napkin to the man. “Maybe you can use this.”

I can tell by the look on the man’s face that he doesn’t think so, but instead of sending my brother back into the crowd, he says, “Let’s ask the Master,” and he takes the napkin in one hand and picks up my brother with the other arm to take him to Jesus.

Oh, how I now regret using my brother as my agent! I could have been picked up by that big man, bigger than Uncle Aaron, even, and brought to Jesus. But I continue watching. I see the many say something to Jesus. I see Jesus lay his hand on my brother’s head in a tender gesture of gratitude. And then, Jesus raises his head, and he looks directly at me.

“Why didn’t you come yourself?” he asks me.

“I was too afraid,” I say.

“And now? Are you afraid now?”

“No, sir.”

“Then come.”

He holds out his hand to me, and I run to him. He saw deep into me, he saw everything, and all I felt was love. When I looked at him I wanted to be with him more than anything in the whole world. And he wanted me, I realized.

The disciples had everyone recline. I watched Jesus break my mother’s loaves and the fish we dried together last autumn. And my brother and I sat right next to Jesus, and we ate. The bread and fish tasted different, somehow, from the way they tasted at home. But the best part was sitting next to Jesus, with my little brother, and feeling the love that poured out of him. I didn’t want to go home, ever. I wanted to stay with him.