Peter reaches the beach and scrambles from the water to the sand. He yanks his wet robe away from his thighs and looks around frantically for the man he saw standing on the shore. He scans the horizon seeing nothing at first. Had it been an apparition? Had he jumped from the boat and swum across the lake for nothing? As the sun begins to rise, Peter spots the man’s silhouette. He is further from the water, near a fire. Peter runs to him, ignoring the shards of rock beneath his feet.
“Is it really you?” The words tumble out of Peter’s mouth as soon as he’s in front of the man. Peter reaches for him, placing his palms on the man’s soft cheeks. His eyes are the same, Peter thinks, like the swirling broth of warm lamb stew. The man waits patiently as Peter examines every inch of his face. Satisfied, Peter kisses him, first on one cheek, then the other, so thankful they are both pink with life. It’s him. It’s Jesus.
“Rabbi.” Peter whispers.
“Hi, Simon Peter.” Jesus sets his hands on Peter’s shoulders. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”
“The last time I saw you it was after they took your body off the cross.” Peter must talk about it. “A piece of your hair was stuck to your face.” He looks at his Rabbi’s forehead, it had looked so cold. “I wanted to move that hair back with the others, but I couldn’t touch you. I should’ve done it.”
Peter drops his hands, stunned by how freely Jesus’ hair sways with the breeze from the lake. He was dead. Now he is so very much alive.
“It’s ok. It’s all ok.” Jesus turns to stoke the coals on the fire.
Peter’s lungs finally catch up with his heart, he takes a deep breath, inhaling the lake air and the charcoal smoke. It reminds him of the night his Rabbi was arrested, right before his crucifixion. It seems so long ago but it was merely days. Only days ago, Peter was standing in Caiaphas’ courtyard, after the arrest, waiting for Jesus. The same smell of charcoal wafting in the air.
“I need to talk to you.” Peter thinks of the servant girl in that courtyard, of his thoughtless responses to her questions. She had asked him if he knew Jesus and Peter had been a coward. A confession begins to rise in his throat, forcing its way out of his shame-filled belly. “I need to—”
“Yes but come sit by the fire first.” Jesus stops Peter and calmly signals to the flames. “Come,” he says, smiling, “Come on, Simon Peter.”
The warm beckoning only increases Peter’s ache. Come Simon Peter, was something Jesus said often when they had traveled together. So often, that the disciples eventually adopted it as a chant. Come Simon Peter, come on, they would all say. It was warranted. Peter was always wandering away from the group or wrapped up in some kind of quarrel. He had once caught a fisherman tying an overhand knot in his net instead of a bowline and he couldn’t let that be. What good would it have been to heal this man’s blindness if he couldn’t tie a proper fishing knot? It was the repetition of the phrase that finally got Peter to leave the man alone, all the disciples calling to him like an obstinate child. Come, Simon Peter, come on.
Peter follows Jesus to the fire. The flames lick the edges of the charcoal like the salty tongues of cattle. The shame sits like a rock in the pit of Peter’s stomach. All he wants to do is expel it from his body. He turns to his Rabbi, his eyes glazed over with angst. “I do have to talk to you.” Peter says, searching Jesus’ face for the absolution he craves.
“I know,” Jesus holds Peter’s gaze, “I know you do. But first, let’s have breakfast. We need to wait for the others in your boat. They are towing quite a load.”
Peter looks to the water, to the boat he had jumped from. It moves like an elderly man limping through the streets, burdened by a heavy flax net filled with fish. Just minutes ago, Peter and the other disciples had been casting and reeling and casting and reeling without even the smallest of minnows to show for it. Exhausted, the men dropped the net on the deck to wipe their brows. They spotted a man on the shoreline. “Children, haven’t you any fish?” Jesus’ voice carried across the water, teasing them. He mimed throwing the net on the other side of the boat.
“How many fish do you think are in that net?” Jesus’ smile turns full on giddy. He is enjoying watching the disciples wrestle with this miraculous catch. It reminds Peter of the water turning to wine at the Cana wedding.
Peter had witnessed many of Jesus’ miracles, most of them involved healing the very sick, but some of them, just a few, were draped in frivolity, like an unnecessarily extravagant gift. Those ones—the wedding, the fish in the net, the excess of bread by the sea—were his favorite. As he watches Jesus, he wonders if those were his Rabbi’s favorites too.
“I don’t know,” Peter says, trying to swallow his urgency, “At least 100 or more.”
“152 heron and one bluegill.” Jesus chuckles and walks up the beach.
“Where are you going?” Peter can’t let him leave.
“Sit by the fire. I’ll be back.” He says.
Peter reluctantly settles himself on the sand. He lifts a piece of weathered cypress and sticks it in the flames. He doesn’t want to be left alone at the fire. He wishes he’d stayed on the boat instead of jumping in the water, but he’s trapped. The memory of that night engulfs him like the mouth of a whale opening wide for its meal. He’s in its belly now, there’s no escape. He must face it.
It had been a remarkably cold night. Peter stood in the courtyard of the High Priest, Caiaphas. He was waiting for Jesus. He huddled as close to the warm fire as he could. The smoke billowed in his direction, stinging his eyes. Through the haze he saw the servant girl approach him, her hair tied back in a tight knot at the nape of her neck, the rope around her waist dragging in the dirt in front of her. She stumbled and caught herself on Peter’s arm. Her touch startled him, and Peter felt irritated by her presence, or maybe by the length of her belt.
Peter had been thinking about the Garden of Gethsemane, trying to sort out what had just happened. Moments before, he had been sleeping in the lush grass, dreaming. In his dream, he had been winning an argument with John about preparing the best fish sauce. Suddenly, John was yelling about a rebellion instead of brine. Peter woke to Roman soldiers binding Jesus’ hands with rope.
“On what grounds are you arresting him?” Peter had jumped up, words rolling off his tongue before his feet hit the ground.
The soldiers ignored him and pushed Jesus toward the garden’s gate. Peter drew the sword. Amongst the disciples, he had volunteered to carry it. They had two in total, but James carried the other, so Peter knew that sword would never be unsheathed.
“Stop!” Peter had yelled and swung the sword the way he thought he should. The blade caught flesh and Peter felt the hilt vibrate in his hand as it severed skin. He watched in shock as an ear fell to the ground and the cries of a man filled the air. It was Malchus, Peter registered, Caiaphas’ servant. Peter stared at the ear as if his gaze alone could reattach it.
Slowly, Jesus had reached down and picked up the ear. He set it back in place with his hand on the side of Malchus’ face, resting it gently as a mother would soothe her child. When he removed his hand, the ear was intact. Everyone stood frozen. It was so quiet Peter heard rustling in the underbrush of the garden.
“Let’s go.” Caiaphas’ growl broke the silence. The soldiers stared at Caiaphas. “Let’s go.” He said again and began to move toward the gate. Jesus followed him. The soldiers, as if remembering their roles, followed Jesus. Peter moved forward as well, leaving the bloody sword lying in the grass.
The group moved slowly through the streets of Jerusalem, Caiaphas’ chin so high in the air, Peter was sure he’d walk into a wall. The soldiers trailed behind, looking as if they wanted to bolt in any other direction as soon as they could.
Once the party reached Caiaphas’ courtyard, Jesus and the soldiers went into the house, but the door banged shut before Peter could sneak through. He decided to wait outside, near the warmth of the fire. Peter was busy thinking about the garden, the bloody ear, and the arrest of his Lord, when the servant girl with the belt approached him.
“Are you with that man, Jesus?” The girl had said, her breath hot in the cold air between them. Peter looked at her blankly. The scenes of the garden, the blood and his Lord were filling his head, the smoke morphing into the scene over and over. He didn’t want to speak with the girl.
“Jesus. Are you with him?” Her voice rose an octave as she repeated herself.
“Who?” The word escaped his lips before he could even fully form it in his mind.
“That Jesus up there with Caiaphas, are you with him?” She pointed in the direction of the cedar door.
“No, that wasn’t me.” He said.
The garden, the blood, his Lord. Peter moved over to stand near the door. It was darker over there. He stared at the ground. The garden, the blood, his Lord. It was very cold away from the fire. What had he said to the girl? That he hadn’t known Jesus? The garden, his Lord. The icy hand of panic gripped Peter, he moved from the fire to the door to the wall. So much was happening, he didn’t know how to calm himself. The girl was upon him again, as a leach to the skin.
No, it had been a man this time. The voice was in his ear. “I know it was you,” he said, Peter couldn’t see his face, but he heard the snarl in his words. “You were with the lunatic when they brought him in.” The voice turned and yelled across the courtyard. “He was. This was the man.”
“Get away from me.” Peter screamed, looking around at the faces turned toward him. “I swear I don’t know the man.”
The door from the house swung open and Jesus emerged. Jesus’ eyes found Peter in the shadow, even when Peter slunk deeper. It took a moment for Peter to understand the way Jesus was looking at him, with loving consolation, just like his father used to when Peter had a hard day on the lake.
A rooster rang out in the distance.
Peter knew that he would not follow Jesus any further that night. He ran to the house of Thomas and wept on the floor with the other disciples. No one asked him if his tears were for Jesus or for himself, he didn’t know.
Jesus was killed later that day.
Since then, Peter had moved like a shadow in the world, haunting it. He had seen the empty tomb after the crucifixion but not his Rabbi’s body, so he had gone back to fishing. He didn’t know how to live in the world without Jesus, but he did know how to cast and pull nets. There once had been no greater high than a net full of fish, their mouths opening and closing as soon as they were pulled from their watery home. The thrill of setting the limp flax in the water and pulling it out as full as a woman near her birthing time. Now it wasn’t thrilling. Even a net full of fish wasn’t greater than standing in front of his Rabbi.
Peter stirs the logs in the sand.
“Simon.” Jesus’ voice comes from behind Peter, startling him. Jesus uses his old name, Simon, the one he had before he met Jesus. This must be it, Peter thinks. What if I’m released from the presence of my Rabbi, like a barnacle pried from the stern?
“Rabbi.” Peter stands, wanting to receive his sentence like a man. Jesus walks around him and sets three fish on the flames. One of them is the Bluegill, Peter’s favorite. He sits down on the sand, leaving Peter standing awkwardly.
“Breakfast.” Jesus holds up a piece of bread and hands it up to Peter who sits down next to him. Jesus stares as the roasting fish, chewing his bread for what feels like hours to Peter.
“I have to tell you, Lord, that I’m so sorry.” Peter finally says, the silence too much for him.
“I know Simon.” Jesus lifts his hand against Peter’s words. He turns to look Peter in the eyes. “But first, I have to ask you, do you love me more than these?” Jesus asks. Peter looks around, these what? The fish? The other disciples?
He answers quickly, wanting to get this over with. “Yes, I love you more, Lord.” Both are true anyway. Peter is sure now. He loves Jesus more than anything, even more than his own life.
“Then feed my lambs, Peter.”
Peter stares at the smoldering flames. “But, Lord, I denied that I knew you.”
Jesus nods. “But Simon, do you love me more than these?” He says.
The courtyard, the nets. They run through Peter’s brain and their color fades.
“I do, Lord, I definitely do. You know that I do.”
“Then take care of my people, Simon.”
“You know I will Lord, I will do anything for you, Lord.”
“Then tell me, Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?”
Scenes play behind Peter’s eyes as if he is watching himself. He sees that night, the tattered ear, the devilish grin of the servant girl, feels the same fear and panic rise and disappear like wisps of smoke. He sees the face of Jesus, emerging from the house, knowing that he’s heading for slaughter, knowing Peter had just denied him and showing him love anyway.
“You know all things, Rabbi.” Peter says. “You know when the sun will rise and set, you know how far the water will come. You know how to fill nets with fish and heal ears in seconds. You know that I love you Lord,” he answers Jesus, “and I always will.”
“Then lead my people when I’m gone, Simon.”
“Are you sure you want me, Lord? I’m a failure.”
“Yes, but, you are also a leader, I’ve known from the beginning. You are to lead my followers, Peter. It’s you. And one day, you will also stretch out your arms, and someone will lead you where you do not wish to go.”
Jesus rubs the scars on his hands together and looks out to the lake and Peter knows that his Rabbi just told him how he was to die—crucified, like him.
Jesus turns and looks to Peter. “Will you follow me, Peter? Will you follow me anywhere?”
“Yes, Lord, anywhere.”
The flames of the fire now look pale against the bright morning sky. Peter watches the other disciples clambering over the sand toward them. He looks at the back of his hand sitting in the sand next to the hand of his Rabbi. His Rabbi’s hand rose from the dead, he thinks, but it still looks just like mine.
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I bit off more than I could chew with this one, and it only took me 9 months to write. I could continue to modify it over and over but today is my birthday so I’m posting it, for better or worse.
Usually, here, I mention something about the scripture, but today I will only say that there is a lot about Peter in the Gospels and I relate to him very very much. All the more, I notice Jesus’ continued love toward Peter in the face of his foolishness. To Peter’s credit, he goes on to build the Church.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading!
Thank you for sharing a glimpse of your writing journey with us. The reunion of Peter and Jesus is worthy of a detour, even a 9 month one. I’m so glad you’re back!
The casual nature in which Jesus responds to Peter is such a sweet reminder that He already knows our heart. He offered Peter a new start with such clarity, such simplicity. The awkwardness of Peter played out well against the assuring love of Jesus. Lovely!
Happy birthday, Ashley! Your introduction says, "Ashley has been running from 'being a writer' for 25 years but has since realized that fleeing writing is as futile as trying to flee her nose." I suppose 9 months isn't too long to wait. Nicely done.