Three For Three
They had spent all night on the boat and had not one fish to show for it. Every draw brought only a net full of nothing. He was the biggest and strongest of the crew. It was his job to go over the side and straighten the nets as they were pulled in. Thus, he worked, wearing a minimum of clothes if any at all. His sun-burned skin glistened in the moonlight as he followed the limp and tangled nets on board. He was too tired to do more than sink to his knees and gasp for breath. He didn't want to be there, but had failed miserably when he tried leaving this way of life behind--it was what he knew and did best. He was quick-tempered and impulsive; he didn't know how to deal with people. He raised himself to the side of the ship and and just rested there, gazing at the empty nets, thinking how typical they were of his own life now: nothing. Nothing since that night. He could not shut out the memory of it. It played over and over in his mind. Each sound during his waking hours reminded him of some event of that night--his dreams were full of twisted torment, each ending with those eyes. Oh, those eyes, those eyes! He shook his head to clear it, but like all the other times, it didn't work. He had to have some sleep before they cast out again. Just for a few minutes... ...It was the darkest hour of the night--the hour before the skies would begin to take on the lightness of the dawn over the horizon. It was that time of morning when even the stars were gone from the heavens, the blackest and coolest part of the night. Yet it was not external influences that caused the man to stumble and shiver, staggering down the now-deserted back streets of the city. It was the knowledge of what had taken place over the past few hours. The deed was done, the moments past, there was no going back. He, who stood head and shoulders above most men, had committed the ultimate act of cowardice--abandonment of a friend. With great rending sobs, he flung himself to the street surface. His fingers clawed the ground as he relived those three moments, each of them an opportunity to stand up and be counted. Three moments that could have made a difference, three moments he had lived all of his life for, yet he turned and slunk away, joining the ranks of those he had always considered the lowest of the low. Liar! Coward! Deserter! Where's all your brags now, you big dolt? He lay there, exhausted and spent. The early morning dampness seeped through his clothing, but he didn't feel it. It wasn't just his denial of his friend that hurt--it was the look on his friend's face when he had turned...across the chaos and confusion, their eyes met. No anger, no condemnation--just an open, honest look from one who needed a friend to one who was too frightened to be a friend. Slowly, he got up, his face and hair matted from the mud he had made. He could smell the sweat and dirt on his clothes, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered any more. There was a great gulf of emptiness within him. The streets were abandoned now; apparently the crowds had moved on or gone home. Embers still glowed in the night fires they had built along the way. He struggled to stay upright. His head pounded; every beat of his heart resounded in his ears. He dunked his head beneath a flow of water by the road. It was bone-chilling cold. He drew back, if not refreshed, at least fully aware of his surroundings. This was a place of horror. He had to get away...away...away...away... There was a clamor on board. Hands roughly shook him awake: "We're casting out, on the right side. Come on!" He was already on his feet and headed over the railing when he heard, "It's Him!" He barely had time to grab his dad's coat and tie it about him before he dove once more into the water. The nets were more than he could handle. Even with the others pulling with all their might, they could not haul them aboard. He signaled his partners to head in. They would have to pull the nets in from shore. These fish were too big to go over the side.Why hadn't the nets broke? He was reluctant to join the others; what was he supposed to say? He and his once-best friend would have to talk, but thus far, he had managed to avoid any direct conversation. How was he ever going to explain why he had acted the way he did to his friend? He finished landing the nets, then took several of the fish to the fire for their breakfast. All of them sat down together and ate, as they had so many times in the past. He was so very glad to see his friend; glad that things had turned out the way his friend said they would. Yes, it was incredible that he was here, but then again, the past couple of years had been filled with incredible events. The sad part was, he realized things would never be as they were before: he had rejected his wonderful friend when he needed him most. Sure, he had tried to come to his defense before the soldiers took him away. He had stood at the top of that rise of ground, where his friend hung suspended between heaven and earth. He had nearly outrun John to get to his tomb when it was reported that his body was missing. He had been in the same room with the others when his friend appeared to them. But these were all actions after the fact. After the fact that he had bragged what all he would do and then denied ever having known him. Suddenly, he heard his name from that voice he loved so much: "Simon, do you love me more than these?" Outstretched arms indicated their surroundings. "Woman, I know him not!" "Yes, Lord, You know that I love You." "Simon, do you love me?" "Man, I am not of his crowd!" "Yes, Lord, You know that I love you!" Inside, he was breaking into pieces. Oh, if only he could go back and erase, if not that whole night, at least his own cowardly actions! How could he have been such an idiot? This man had been so good to him, seeing past his faults and failures, rebuking him one moment and bragging on him the next. He looked down at his big fisherman's hands, not daring to look into his friend's eyes. "Simon, do you love me?" "Man, I don't know what you're talking about!" He couldn't stand it another moment! He jumped to his feet, tears filling his eyes, his heart tortured within him. "Lord, You know all things. You know that I love You!" His voice, ragged with guilt and shame boomed across the water. It was met with the simple quietness of: "Feed my sheep." Into the depths of his dearest friend's eyes, he looked. He was transfixed by what he saw there. No condemnation: compassion. Love. Forgiveness. Understanding. All the qualities of this friend of his that had been extended to others were there for him, too.
Yes, Peter devoted the rest of his life to the ministry of the gospel and went on to become a great preacher, but perhaps it was the memory of that look, that during his times of discouragement and disappointment, compelled him to keep going. Legend has it he was crucified, insisting it be upside down because he didn't deserve to die in an upright position as had his Friend. I could be wrong, you know, but somehow I don't think ole' Peter ever quite forgot that look in his friend's eyes. That look that passed across the courtyard from Jesus to him and back again. That look that said, "I still love you. I know you're afraid, but I still love you." If you were to close your eyes right now, could you see that look, too? That look of eternal love, undying compassion--that look that says, Savior to sinner, "Follow me." "Three For Three" Copyright © 1998 by Patricia Sikes. All Rights Reserved.
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If That Isn't Love
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