No one had eaten in a day and a half, and Micah could no longer feel his legs.
Not from pain—he simply couldn't tell if they were still beneath him. That old ache in his joints was silent now, replaced by something deeper. Hunger does that. It turns noise into silence, and the restless into stillness. He glanced down at his son, tucked tight beneath his cloak, stick-thin arms around his own ribs, and whispered, “Just a little longer.”
The boy didn't move.
The hillside held thousands—families, widows, men with torn sandals and mothers with babies strapped to their backs. All of them had followed Him. They had lingered through the third day now, fixed on the man who healed the broken and spoke like thunder beneath a whisper.
Micah had not come for words. He had come for a cure. He came hoping the man would look at his son, pry the demons of silence from his face, and give him back his voice.
Jesus had walked near earlier, healing others. He touched a blind child's brow. He laid his hand on a twisted leg. People screamed. Fell. Wept. But then the crowd swelled, and the boy—invisible as he always was—disappeared again. It was no one’s fault. It never really was.
“Teacher,” someone called. “Send them away. There’s nothing here.”
Micah turned. One of the men, one of His own, stood beside Him. The Teacher’s robes fluttered just slightly in the Judean wind.
“They’ll collapse,” Jesus answered. His voice was soft but carried. “Some have come from far.”
He looked out across the crowd then, the way a shepherd counts wounds instead of sheep.
His eyes passed over Micah.
Stopped.
Then the Teacher crouched and spoke to the ones near Him. “How many loaves do you have?”
Micah couldn’t hear the answer. The wind was picking up. Children started to whine. Somewhere, a goat bleated as if to remind them there was wilderness all around. There was nothing for miles but dust and cracked stone.
Then He knelt—Jesus knelt—with a piece of bread in His hand and lifted His face toward the sky.
Micah tensed.
He didn’t speak loud, didn’t wave His hands or billow fire from the air.
He prayed.
When He opened His eyes, He broke the bread.
Again. And again. And again.
And the baskets moved.
Down the rows, passed by bruised and blistered hands. People blinked in disbelief as they tore the bread and passed it on, passed it forward, on to others with hollow faces, dry lips, blinking as if this was a dream drenched in sunlight.
Micah watched one of the baskets edge toward him.
He didn’t move.
But his son stirred.
Reached up.
Micah grasped the bread, handed it to the boy. The small fingers held it. Cradled it like warm stone. He took a bite and closed his eyes, chewing slowly, then faster.
Micah breathed—but stayed still.
A woman beside him wiped her mouth and whispered, “He saw us.”
Micah nodded, once.
He looked again at the man on the hill. Jesus stood now, watching the people eat. Not speaking. Just watching.
And for the first time in weeks, Micah wasn’t afraid of being forgotten.
His son leaned into his side, his cheek warm against his father’s ribs.
“You’re full?” Micah whispered.
The boy didn’t answer.
But he nodded.
No one had eaten in a day and a half, and Micah could no longer feel his legs.
Not from pain—he simply couldn't tell if they were still beneath him. That old ache in his joints was silent now, replaced by something deeper. Hunger does that. It turns noise into silence, and the restless into stillness. He glanced down at his son, tucked tight beneath his cloak, stick-thin arms around his own ribs, and whispered, “Just a little longer.”
The boy didn't move.
The hillside held thousands—families, widows, men with torn sandals and mothers with babies strapped to their backs. All of them had followed Him. They had lingered through the third day now, fixed on the man who healed the broken and spoke like thunder beneath a whisper.
Micah had not come for words. He had come for a cure. He came hoping the man would look at his son, pry the demons of silence from his face, and give him back his voice.
Jesus had walked near earlier, healing others. He touched a blind child's brow. He laid his hand on a twisted leg. People screamed. Fell. Wept. But then the crowd swelled, and the boy—invisible as he always was—disappeared again. It was no one’s fault. It never really was.
“Teacher,” someone called. “Send them away. There’s nothing here.”
Micah turned. One of the men, one of His own, stood beside Him. The Teacher’s robes fluttered just slightly in the Judean wind.
“They’ll collapse,” Jesus answered. His voice was soft but carried. “Some have come from far.”
He looked out across the crowd then, the way a shepherd counts wounds instead of sheep.
His eyes passed over Micah.
Stopped.
Then the Teacher crouched and spoke to the ones near Him. “How many loaves do you have?”
Micah couldn’t hear the answer. The wind was picking up. Children started to whine. Somewhere, a goat bleated as if to remind them there was wilderness all around. There was nothing for miles but dust and cracked stone.
Then He knelt—Jesus knelt—with a piece of bread in His hand and lifted His face toward the sky.
Micah tensed.
He didn’t speak loud, didn’t wave His hands or billow fire from the air.
He prayed.
When He opened His eyes, He broke the bread.
Again. And again. And again.
And the baskets moved.
Down the rows, passed by bruised and blistered hands. People blinked in disbelief as they tore the bread and passed it on, passed it forward, on to others with hollow faces, dry lips, blinking as if this was a dream drenched in sunlight.
Micah watched one of the baskets edge toward him.
He didn’t move.
But his son stirred.
Reached up.
Micah grasped the bread, handed it to the boy. The small fingers held it. Cradled it like warm stone. He took a bite and closed his eyes, chewing slowly, then faster.
Micah breathed—but stayed still.
A woman beside him wiped her mouth and whispered, “He saw us.”
Micah nodded, once.
He looked again at the man on the hill. Jesus stood now, watching the people eat. Not speaking. Just watching.
And for the first time in weeks, Micah wasn’t afraid of being forgotten.
His son leaned into his side, his cheek warm against his father’s ribs.
“You’re full?” Micah whispered.
The boy didn’t answer.
But he nodded.
