The Campfire

I tuck myself into the boat, huddling down into the bow, making myself as small as possible, and I wait. The water from the lake laps gently against the wood of the dock, and the rough planks that surround me smell of fish, and moldy tar, and wet… but I don’t care.

I already know what will happen on the other side of this night, and my blood hums beneath my skin, anticipating. A few stars have started to pop up in the wide open sky, and I look up at that huge, dark-blue, purple, and black expanse that makes me feel so very small and hidden, letting the cool air brush against my cheeks almost as if it were a finger tracing the contours of my face. I swallow back the sudden knot in my throat as the imagery of that finger gets to me. I wish just this would be enough for me – that all these pieces of him would be all I needed to feel my feet under me again. That I had that kind of faith that would take so little care he wouldn’t have to go to such lengths to soothe my needy soul.

But they aren’t and I don’t, so I wait. Impatient as I am and fighting back the homesickness I feel. The wind has died down as it almost always does at this time of night, and there’s a strange sort of stillness that surrounds me and this little boat. I have this thought that the lake itself knows what is to come and the creation around me is holding its breath just like I am.

My chest aches with longing; it’s been too long since I came here, and I can hardly sit still as all the things that have been piling up inside me threaten to choke the breath right out of my lungs. Threaten to tear me right out of my spot. But I need him. I need him. It’s a constant little phrase that repeats in my heart as I wait.

Peter, the twins, and a few others including John come then, striding onto the dock; their footsteps quiet, hollow, thuds on the wood; their silhouettes dark against the dusk that has crawled its way across the shore. There’s two boats they’ll take since they’re fishing with nets. I can’t make out their faces from where I’m sitting with my knees pulled up to my chest but I don’t really need to in order to know how they’re all feeling. I watch them come, my heart turning over at what I see, the defeat in their stances, the way they eye the shore for danger – all of them half expecting to get arrested or mobbed. Some of them crowd into the small vessel on the other side of the dock, quiet, with hardly a word spoken, and others begin to step into mine. The twins try to make jokes to lighten the mood, but their words fall flat and it doesn’t take long for them to fall silent too, their faces grim from the constant strain of the last few weeks, exhaustion and grief pulling their shoulders down. John is the most withdrawn out of them all. He just takes his place along the hull and sits in stillness, his body present but his mind elsewhere. The homesick ache is so palpable around him I can scarcely stand looking at his face, and every time I do, my heart squeezes as my own homesickness clutches me in a stranglehold.

It’s strange to me how time is so fleeting and yet so eternal. It doesn’t seem to matter that Jesus appeared to them twice already in different places. It’s as if those moments just disappeared with him when he went again.

I’m realizing that physical events aren’t enough to hold onto when you’re stuck in-between happenings.

It doesn’t seem to matter that weeks have passed since the horrible, awful night of his death. As I watch the others on the opposite side of the dock start rowing out from shore, the thought crosses my mind that it’s like they’re locked in stasis, stuck between what they’d thought would happen – and how to live now that Jesus will never be visibly walking down the road with them the way he used to. They’re still waiting for him to do something else. Show up and tell them where to go next. Find a way to come back and stay with them. They’re hoping that what he said about not being with him right now isn’t actually true – that his words about the kingdom of God can still become physical matter and reality and not what they’re starting to suspect to be true. He rose from the grave – shouldn’t he be here with them? He promised better things to come, but their grief is so heavy it sits on my chest too, and I struggle to keep watch.

As I huddle there, aching for them, knowing how terrible it is to feel lost and alone even in a group, I wish they could see me – that I was more than a spectre, a visitor that only gets to observe. And another thing crosses my mind as Peter half shouts directions across at the other boat. As much as it always surprises me, they’ve clearly chosen Peter as their leader, even though he doesn’t know it yet. All it took was him mentioning going fishing for them all to follow him into the dusk. I watch him as he steps in last, shoving the boat off the dock with only a small rocking motion as he boards. He clearly knows what he’s doing, his tall, strong body at home in the boat as much as on shore, and just as clearly to me he’s tenser than the others, his wide shoulders stiff as he keeps himself busy with the nets. The others are quick to follow his instructions, the twins rowing together, and it doesn’t take long before the net is cast. It feels good to do something tangible, physical, for once. Peter is all business, but I notice as I watch them work and talk in quiet murmurs that he can’t quite make himself meet anyone’s eyes. It doesn’t matter that the others are still here after what happened and haven’t accused him – he blames himself for his weakness, his betrayal, and the guilt and shame of it is nearly killing him.

The men work for hours, following Peter’s instructions, all of them stripping out of their outer garments as they get wetter and tireder. The night wears on and they cast the net again and again. Peter’s words come out gruffer, sharper with each hour, and not a single fish appears. We try several different spots, going from one to the other as tension builds. The other men can feel it, and they cast quick furtive side glances at each other, ready to stop, to call it quits for the night, but not challenging him yet. They all know what he did, the denial he’d spoken, and the awkwardness of it is like an elephant in the boat just as it was on the shore. None of them are quite blaming him because they all lived through that night, felt that fear of being hunted, but some of them secretly fear they’d have done the same, that they might still if they’re confronted by a Roman soldier, and it’s making them judge him just a little harsher. They’ve come too far as brothers to give up on each other, but I can see it now – the fraying in their friendship as Peter hides from what happened. As they all grapple with their own demons and fears and doubts.

I turn and watch Peter as dawn comes closer, can almost see the thoughts race in the tight lines of his face, the desperation building in his demeanour. This was his last ditch attempt to find normalcy – to get his feet under him. If nothing else he is a fisherman, and he thought he’d find his way if he could go back to the way things used to be. But now he’s wriggling like a fish on a hook, the shame of abandoning Jesus clearly spearing through him, and it’s getting harder and harder for him to hide from the truth of it, the accusation of it. There’s absolutely no reason for there to not be at least one or two fish. Even a failure of a night should yield that much. They work on. It’s not until close to dawn that I can see it when it hits him like a fist to the stomach – his acceptance that he’s being punished, the accusation in his head that the God he knows as Yahweh is stopping the fish from appearing because of what he did. His face turns to stone. My stomach churns with sympathy, with anxiety, with shared longing. I know what he feels because I feel it too. I’ve walked his very footsteps in one way or another. He’s afraid that he’s crossed a line he’ll never return from. That the gap he senses between him and his most favourite person will never close.

And then, as a lighter blue begins to fill the horizon and temper the black of the starry sky, a voice carries over the water. I’ve been expecting it, but the familiar sound makes my eyes close for a second, regardless, tears pressing against my eyelids at the relief of hearing it.

“Friends, haven’t you any fish?”

The group in my boat exchanges looks, disgruntled, half embarrassed, irritated at a stranger for pointing out their failure to do the simplest of work. None of them look at the shore yet and I want to reach out and grab their chins, turn their heads.

“No.” Peter’s voice is sharp, angry at the intruder for pointing out what he’s been trying not to admit and he motions for the other to keep rowing further up the shore.

“Try the other side of the boat.” The voice comes again, and I turn my head, stare towards it, my heart in my throat. John is too. His body has gone utterly still as he remembers who speaks in that tone. We both strain to see past the small flickering flames of a campfire on the shore to make out the man standing beside it. “On the right side,” The silhouette insists, “You’ll find some there.”

There’s an inhale then, and no one speaks because all of them are suddenly aware. All of them are suddenly secretly giddy with a wild hope. It’s utterly ridiculous to suggest there would be fish just on the other side of the boat. And the very illogical nature of the ask, the certainty of the voice, the teasing dare to listen to it is what makes them all freeze. As I take only a second to look back into the boat I know that their souls recognize who it is but they’re half afraid to believe it. And they’re fully afraid it’s a momentary spell, that he’ll vanish the instant they break it by speaking. Moving in a sort of trance they cast the net, all of their eyes trained on the still water, none of them daring to look at each other or the shore.

And as sure as his voice, the water is suddenly roiling and teeming with fish splashing as they’re caught. The men shout and strain and hurry to close the net, almost all of them caught in the activity. Except John. And Peter. John is staring towards shore. Peter’s body has frozen in place and there’s a look of anguish on his face. My heart squeezes and a tear escapes in empathy with Peter’s pain. I feel it too, that mix of longing and trepidation.

“It’s him.” John whispers, his voice hoarse.

The words ripple through Peter like a stone in a pool. His body jerks once and then coils. I watch as he shoves the shame behind a mask, determination filling his features. He won’t wait for the others, the agony of waiting is too much for him. He wants it over. He grabs his tunic, wraps it around his neck and with one jump he’s over the side and swimming for the shore.

Part of it is just Peter. He’s always impatient, like me. Impulsive. But he’s also unwilling for the others to be standing beside him when he looks into that face for the first time, searches it for the rejection he’s expecting or forgiveness he’s longing for. He can’t stand to wait another second to find out his fate. He knows Jesus knows what he did – but maybe he’s forgotten or it doesn’t matter. He can’t stand another second of this long interminable night of doubt and failure. I want to follow him, but I stay in the boat. The ones left beside me fight to tow the full, wriggling net to shore, some of them muttering expletives at Peter’s abandonment, others rolling their eyes at his predictably dramatic actions. He’s just a little too over the top with his emotions for comfort sometimes. Especially among these men.

I wish I had physical arms to help row faster. Every second feels like an age now that he’s there, waiting for us. I’ve kept my eyes glued to the two men, watching them as we draw closer, but I don’t know what they said. I know Jesus laughed, his deep chuckle reached the boat, shivered over my skin and made me grin through my tears after he saw Peter recklessly jump in. I watched him clap a hand on Peter’s shoulder when he stepped out of the water, I saw them briefly hug despite Peter’s being drenched. But even now I can see that there’s still tension in Peter’s shoulders, and he fidgets. Whatever was said didn’t fix it. The shame is still there, sitting like a ghost on Peter’s shoulders.

“Why don’t you bring some of that fish in?” Jesus calls to us as the hull of the boat scrapes the sandy shore. His eyes are locked on mine, and they soften as they always do when he finds me there. He can see everything I’m feeling even now, and as always making eye contact means I don’t get to hide from the turmoil in my heart. Tears stream down my face as I step out of the boat, unseen by the others but seen by him. “Hi, my love,” I hear him in my head, his voice travelling so far down into my soul I feel it in every particle of me. It’s always the strangest sensation to see him, an intense ache that is both homesick and joy – as if, even having arrived, the need for him has only grown more acute. Peter is already rushing past me, back to the boat to haul the fish in himself, his need to hide making him avoid everyone, making him look for excuses to stay busy.

John is rushing past me too, in the opposite direction, and Jesus gives a great laugh again throwing his arms wide. And then his eyes are squeezed closed as they crash into each other and clamp on and the love in his face is so deep, so endless I swallow and turn away for a minute. John is crying too, unable to hide his relief, and also, even now, I can feel a small desperate twinge of fear cling to him, knowing this is momentary, that it won’t last for long.

Jesus knows it too, he grabs each one of the men, giving tight hugs of the kind brothers who’ve walked through hell and come out the other side give. They all have a moment with him, a couple words of greeting as they stand around, half of them overly boisterous with relief to be together, half quiet, their eyes drinking everything in, afraid the moment will pass too soon.

“Come,” Is all Jesus says, with a grin, beckoning with one arm towards the fire, “I’ve made you breakfast. I even brought the bread and fish this time.”

They all crowd around the fire, the first emotions banking down behind the tiredness of a long night, speaking in quiet voices as they pass food around to each other and dig in. There’s so much hope and joy in their eyes I can scarcely bear it. I stand at the edge of the them, not really part of it, but content to be there anyway until Jesus looks up and over at me from his spot crowded right in the middle, and quirks an eyebrow at me, crooking a finger.

And then I’m climbing into his lap, and his arms are snug around me, unseen by the others like a shy child in a group full of adults. And I press my side into his chest, rest my cheek against the thump of his heart, and close my eyes, relishing the feel of him, the way he’s so much bigger than me, the way his chin fits over my head, the smallness I feel as his warmth surrounds me. He trades jokes and smiles with his friends while they all soak him up, the need to let as much of him in as possible vibrating through the whole group including me, and all the while he holds me, his arms a tight band of safety. Now and then I feel him press a kiss to the top of my head, and we don’t need to speak because he knows everything already, like I said. I never want to leave, I never want to stray from my spot even as I feel time ticking away and that I will have to move soon. The thought makes me feel it, the worry that it will end. “Not yet.” He says into my mind, his voice chiding just a little; his arms squeezing a bit tighter to remind me they’re still there.

I feel him take a breath then, and tense a little. And I know what’s coming, and that it’s hard for him even as it’s necessary for Peter.

His eyes lock onto Peter’s across the fire. “Simon, son of John,” He starts, his words formal, not nearly as casual as usual, “Do you love me more than these?” his voice carries throughout the group. Not loud but authoritative. Everyone stops talking. Several eyes swing to Peter, some of them thinking it’s a tease because Jesus would never claim one loved him more than the other or set them into competition against one another. “Hey!” One of them laughs indignantly.

Peter’s body locks up in stiff discomfort. He’s not sure this is a joke, Jesus’s words are too formal and his gaze too intense. But I can see the eagerness flood his face at the chance to redeem himself. ” Yes Lord.” He says quickly, elbowing one of the twins, trying to convince everyone he’s in on the joke, his words nearly stumbling over each other in the haste to get out. “You know I do.”

The others rib him, jostling each other, joking half heartedly. They want it to be a joke. My heart squeezes. Even now Peter wants to get past it all – pretend it never happened or that Jesus has forgotten what he did.

Jesus smiles at the joking, nods at Peter as if he knew that is what he would say, “Feed my lambs.” He instructs Peter. And I can see Peter’s shoulders levelling out as he hears the command in what Jesus says and sits up straighter – here is the way out – a way to redeem himself – a task to put that night behind him, something controllable, something hard to do, and relief rolls over his face. He nods. I know this part too, how it’s easier to be given something tangible to do rather than have to face a wound that goes too deep for physical fixing.

The others start to talk, everyone relaxes, and it’s as if they’re all relieved. One of them claps Peter’s shoulder and nods his head too. My heart is thudding loudly in my ears, I lean into Jesus, snaking my arms around his waist and squeezing, wishing I could do something to ease the suffering of this moment, feeling the stiffness in his muscles as he confronts the shame Peter carries, determined to expose it and destroy it once and for all. I want to comfort them both, but Jesus is the one who carries me – the one who no one thinks to comfort in this moment and he lets me feel the stuff going on in his heart. There’s joy shimmering there – there’s always joy because there is no distance between him and me, between him and all those he loves. But there’s sorrow there too, for what’s ahead of Peter, an ache for the things Peter’s yet to face, and there’s also grief over the loss of confidence in Peter – the way he’s hiding from the truth, and beneath that there’s the memory of Peter’s denial that night that he’s about to pull out into the open. I know the words spoken in fear hurt him, left him feeling alone on that awful night he died. I think their lack of faith in him hurt him while he hung there. There’s a rock hard determination underneath everything, a steady unmovable force thrumming at the centre of Jesus to restore the relationship Peter thinks he’s lost, to heal the wound shame carved out of him.

He interrupts the conversation again, and this time I catch my breath. “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

Peter laughs awkwardly, and he shifts in his spot, tension ratcheting up. The group is quiet now, Confusion filling their gazes, though they’re guessing now. Peter’s eyes sidle away from everyone’s, his gaze won’t land anywhere as he tries to figure out what’s happening. “Yes Lord, you know that I love you.”

Jesus doesn’t nod this time, his eyes grab Peter’s and they’re steady, hard to read. “Take care of my sheep.” He says, his voice so quiet that some of the men lean in to hear it. Peter jerks his head in an awkward nod and answers, “I will.” All kinds of things are racing through his head now. He’s wondering if Jesus doubts him that he has to ask again. He’s hoping it’s some kind of ceremony. Maybe Jesus is doing his weird parable thing right now, maybe it has nothing to do with what happened. But his shoulders start to rise and he hunches in on himself a little as he feels the approach of it. The breaking open. A few of the men start to speak, but it’s not very boisterous anymore. They can sense it too. All of them are half afraid of what Jesus will say next and none of them want the attention that Peter is getting.

“Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Jesus’s voice has risen in power now, and it cuts through the group, through the air, through the lapping of the waves on the shore and burrows right into the heart of Peter’s shame and I watch as Peter breaks, all of his fear, all of his avoidance of that night exposed. Defeat fills Peter’s face, hurt floods through him that Jesus had to ask three times. As if he doesn’t trust him, as if he’s exposing what he did to the whole group. His three denials of knowing his best friend that night stand right in the middle of the group, stark and ugly before their gazes, sticky with shame and cowardice they all feel.

Peter is stiff, totally silent, shame radiating off him like a cloud. It takes him several minutes to gather himself, to raise his eyes from the fire and meet Jesus’s, but inch by inch they do. His voice comes then, quieter than it’s ever been, more hesitant. “Lord you know all things.” I swallow at the words, at the pain in them. Peter is no longer hiding from what he did, “You know that I love you.” He pleads. The desperation to be forgiven, the need to be set free from the shame are all there, trembling through the air and everyone feels it, everyone knows it by heart. The others may not have denied Jesus that night, but they might have. They all felt the doubt after he died. They all thought they’d lost – none of them trusted him to come through and they know it.

Jesus leans forwards now, stares at Peter and his eyes are intense. His words are the same, but his tone is different. “Feed. my. sheep.” He says slowly, enunciating each word carefully, and I can feel him as I sit there listening, watching. I can feel his heart reaching through the fog that doubt and fear have draped around Peter, trying to get through to his friend, calling for him to remember who Jesus is, to know again what he should. To have faith in their bond. To have faith in Jesus’s love. There is quiet as Peter struggles through it. As he tries to grasp what exactly is happening. As Jesus leans forward, his voice quiet, his eyes never leaving Peter, I see the moment the revelation dawns on Peter. Of what Jesus is asking him. As friend to friend. As teacher to student. That Peter is being entrusted to love the other ones Jesus treasures. That three times is the scalpel exposing the shame that had been eating away at Peter’s faith, his heart, his confidence, that had started eroding the foundation of the group’s brotherhood. To put Jesus’s stamp of love over it. And that all of them needed to be there to witness it, to feel Jesus’s forgiveness. To remember what he stood for. To feel his restoration take place. To know that Jesus already knew what would happen – the doubts and fears in their hearts. And chose them all. Not anyway. Not despite. Not out of pity.

There’s an embarrassing half-groan half sob that rends the silence as it all hits Peter and he remembers who he is to Jesus, and the shame falls away from him like fetters to the ground. He lurches to his feet, heading straight for us. Jesus lets out a tiny breath of relief, too quiet for anyone to hear, but I can feel it against my body. Peter hadn’t turned away, hadn’t let his fear or shame pull him further away. And I scrunch my eyes close as I remember too. And that’s when Jesus squeezes my shoulder gently, stands up and grabs Peter. “Follow me.” He says, and there’s tears in his eyes too as Peter’s shoulders shake. And they walk away from the fire together, Jesus’s arm over Peter’s, speaking quietly together, and I let them go because what is said, the healing that happens now is between the two of them alone.