The Daddy

Like the Boy, the Daddy story Jo requests doesn't go by this name in the Baby Bible.  In fact, the designation is "The Little Girl."  For symmetry, I would expect Jo to ask for "The Boy" and "The Girl" each night, but she's intent on "The Daddy."

And I can hardly blame her.  In this narrative, the desperate father comes to Jesus, asking for his help to heal his dying daughter.  Jairus is a good man.  In a world that devalued women in general and girls in particular, he seeks out the Rabbi's help for his little girl.

It's a short narrative in the Baby Bible, and Jo seems not to mind when I rush through to the end (after four rounds of Curious George, Noah, and the Boy, I'm usually losing steam by this point).  But on the last page, we always have to stop to note the figures represented.  The daddy, the little girl, and the mommy--and on the facing page, the neighbors who had gathered to mourn, now carrying trays and pitchers, and dancing.

One night a few months back when we were repeating our evening ritual of naming the characters, Jo pointed to these and I said, "The neighbors, having a party."  Jo turned to me and said, "They're celebrating."

At barely two years old, we didn't know she knew the word (or that she could say it).  Indeed.  They're celebrating.  Having a party.  Singing, dancing, bringing out the snacks and the wine.  "Jesus had made them happy again," concludes the story. 

But happy doesn't begin to show what the picture shows.  The daddy, the mommy, and the little girl, with a backup chorus of their community, bringing in the fried food and baked goods.  Breaking out the party food.

But why "The Daddy" as Jo's title?  Perhaps because he sets the story in motion.  He asks.  He reaches out of cultural expectation to draw attention to a little girl.  He humbles himself before the Rabbi and then challenges the leader to hurry.  He's insistent.  Pushy.

And on the last page of the story--at least the one I read every night--he shamelessly dances with his wife, his little girl, and three female neighbors bringing in the feast.  Outrageous.  And a happy man, indeed.

The Boy

Each night, we read.  For about the past two months, it has been at least the three Curious George books that we own (now supplemented with one checked out from the library) and an array of Bible stories.  Of late, the favorite Bible stories have been "Noah," "Boy," and "Daddy."  These, by the way, are not the names assigned the stories in the Baby Bible.  These are Jo's labels, identifying those whom she sees as the most important characters.  (At least Noah isn't "Shark," though the sharks are her favorite of the illustrations.)

"The Boy" is the Baby Bible's version of the feeding of the multitudes.  It begins with a girl and her mother remarking that they're hungry.  (Should I pause to note my skepticism that any mother would go out for a day with her children without snacks readily at hand?  Perhaps I've not been in as much of a hurry to go listen to Jesus as she was that I've been without at least a few graham cracker crumbs to sustain us through the duration.  Though I will note that the Sermon on the Mount would have been particularly long and even the graham crackers might have run out.)  But it's not the girl and her mother whom Jo has attended to.  This is the story of "The Boy."  The Boy, of course, is the one who offers to Jesus his five loaves and two fish.  His lunch that numerous preachers have pointed out was not as substantial as our perception.  We're talking small pieces of flatbread (crackers, really) and herring here, not Sara Lee loaves and Steelhead.

By a miracle, there was food for everyone. 

"Enjoy the food," said Jesus.  And they did.

So ends the story in the Baby Bible (yes, I have it memorized, thankyouverymuch).  There's precious little role for the boy in the story, but Jo has recognized him as the story's central figure--even over Jesus, who responds to the people, instructs his disciples, accepts the food, blesses it, and pronounces the benediction.

I've pondered this:  what does the boy do that has so captivated my daughter?

He's a child, like her, so I suppose that's part of her association.  But more than that, he's apparently aware enough of the situation to realize others' hunger, even though he himself is not hungering.  Jesus does not make an appeal for donations to the food bank; no one advertises the need.  The boy is paying attention to the people around him, and he knows they're hungry.

The boy also knows Jesus.  That is, he doesn't pass his bread and fish to the people sitting next to him; he brings them to Jesus.  I'm not sure how this miracle works (and I know there are a number of theories about it), but had the boy passed only to those nearest him, the community of those fed might have remained pretty small, but in Jesus' hands, the community is vast--a multitude.  And the food is plenty:  "All ate and were filled," says Mark the Evangelist (6.42). 

Because a child paid attention, all were fed.  Because a child recognized his own hunger, others' hunger was satisfied.

May I learn this faith of a child:  to know my own hunger and the hunger of others, and to recognize the capacity of my sharing that extends far beyond my own reach.

Next up, the Daddy story.