I blinked my eyes slowly, waiting for them to adjust to the darkness. The comforting blue-gray that filled the world just before the break of dawn is my favorite time of day; that short window when everything is soft and quiet, nary a worry or a soul stirring. Beside me, I could hear the deep, relaxed breathing of my children, who were still firmly in the world of dreaming. My husband snored softly at my other side, exhausted from a night of fishing. I rose as quietly as I could, gently pushing up from the mat so that I could begin my day. As I stood and stretched my body, I felt my mind begin to awaken with all of the tasks that needed to be done. The Passover is fast approaching, and preparations for that must begin today. 

I walked to our small table at the front of the house and poured a little water into a basin and washed my hands and my face. I looked out of our small window and saw some of the women beginning their day as well, the soft light of a new day slowly starting in, painting the village with a bluish-golden glow. Feed the animals. Prepare the meals. Get water from the well. Clean the house of all things that have been touched by anything leavened. I thought about all that needed to be accomplished as I prepared the flour for bread. I went out and was greeted by a beautiful spring day; I could smell the air coming from the Sea of Galilee, and the trees were lush and the grass green and abundant. I began to heat up the tannur for baking, and checked on the fish that I had been drying for a few days. Today felt like any other day, a beautiful albeit busier one due to the coming feast, but still just another day.

It wasn’t long until the children and my husband awoke, and the village was stirring with life again. Eating, cleaning, gathering, washing, drinking, chastising, laughing, talking, tending to the animals – so much was happening as it always does, that I didn’t even notice the large crowd walking past the village. So entranced was I in the work of my hands that I gasped in surprise when my son touched my shoulder to get my attention. Mother, they say the prophet is near. I want to see him, mother! 

My son, almost a man but still a child in my eyes, looked pleadingly at me. That’s when I noticed that a crowd had begun to gather and walk towards the water, excited murmurs among them. I looked back at my son, whose eyes were already focused on the crowd. My heart ached to go with him, but I looked back at the house and thought of all the things that needed to get done before the feast. If the prophet was really going to be near, then it would be a shame for our household to not be a witness to it. I stood and gathered three loaves of bread and two fish, packed them to bring with him for his next meal. Then I realized that I had no idea how far he would need to walk. I looked at the few remaining loaves, and gave him two more. One never knows. 

He took the food, kissed me goodbye, and ran towards the crowd. I looked after him until I could no longer see his form and wondered what he would learn from the man they called Jesus. They said he was a healer, a prophet. So many in this village were sick or poorly, and I knew that it would do them well to see him. I rubbed my neck and shoulder, constantly aching from all of the work, and hoped I would be done in time to join the rest of the village. I looked over across the courtyard and caught the eye of a neighbor, and with a nod, we continued with our day. 

—

Night had come. The fires were lit, and the food was prepared. I stood by the door as the rest of my family gathered inside, waiting to begin the meal. I kept on looking out into the direction of the sea, until I could see figures finally stepping out of the darkness and into view. My eyes searched the crowd for the face of my son, hoping he would not have been too hungry or tired from the day, wondering if he had learned from the teacher or if he got distracted by boyhood instead. 

Finally, his face emerged as he walked towards our home. I ran down the steps to greet him, and was filled with confusion when I saw that he was holding a basket full of… bread? Fish? 

What is this, son? I asked him. His eyes were bright with excitement, his face glowing, barely able to contain this fullness I could sense was coming from within. Let us go inside mother, and I shall tell you all about it. There’s been a miracle! 

We sat gathered around the table as my son spoke excitedly about the events of the day, the light from our lamps reflecting in his wide eyes. He told us about all the people that came, the compassion in the face of Jesus, how he healed the crowd of many different ailments and diseases. The prophet spoke of so many beautiful truths, he said, but none were as powerful as the miracle that fed thousands. 

It was then that he looked at me and said, the day was late when he finished, and people were hungry. The men that were with him did not know where to get food to feed them. He paused before saying, I knew I didn’t have enough for everyone, but mother, you always somehow find a way to feed us all, everyday. Something told me that he could do the same. He blessed the food, broke the bread and the fish… and somehow just kept doing the same. Breaking, feeding, breaking, feeding. It did not end until everybody was satisfied. 

I sat in awed silence. Not only did they all eat to their satisfaction, but they were also able to gather up enough to fill baskets and send my son home with leftovers. I stared at the miracle that sat on our floor— a basket full of more food than I sent out— and my eyes filled with tears. My heart felt so full I thought it might explode. 

Then I looked down at my hands. 

They were rough, and strong, and looked like they belonged to an older person, but every day these hands did the work that needed to be done. On this day, just another day, the mundane work of these simple hands helped feed a multitude. 

Tomorrow, when I awake, it will no longer feel like just another day. As I rise to meet the dawn, mill the barley and knead the dough, as I clean the pounded earth floor of my home— each day will now come alive with the rich possibility of the impossible. As I looked at the glowing face of my son, thinking of the kindness it took to share what little food he had, I knew then that none of my love went unnoticed. 

I knew then that in the right hands, your seemingly small, ordinary life, and all of the invisible work that you do, can truly become miraculous.  

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The feeding of the 5000 is one of the biggest miracles Jesus performed. We all hear about the sweet little boy who offered something humble that turned into an unbelievable event. But we never hear about the mother who rose before dawn every day so she could prepare everything.

I researched all that I could about the daily comings and goings of ancient Israelites. I researched what their homes looked like, what they used for baking, their family dynamics, the possible site of the miracle itself – everything to make it feel authentic. But everything she said and thought, I based on what I would have done as a mother myself. This is how I imagined it must have been like for her – to have the work of her hands and her heart validated by Jesus himself. I dedicate this to all the mothers and all the invisible weight they carry.