Chapter 16 The Right to Refuse Him, Part 2

So I lift the net as my brothers watch, and I throw it. As it hits the water, almost immediately there’s a churning, like a tremor beneath the surface. I wonder what I’ve caught, for this is highly unusual, and actually, quite impossible.

I plant my feet against the edge of the boat and I start to lift it out of the water. I stumble from the weight and my brothers rush to my aid. Soon, they too are struggling from the enormity of our catch; so many fish are trapped that I lose count and I know this net won’t hold the bulk. The spray from their flopping and flailing hits our faces and we laugh at the miracle in our hands.

Before I can appreciate what is happening, John squints toward the beach and cries out, “It’s the Master!” and instantly, I know this must be true.

With the sunlight now, I can see his face across the sea and he’s beaming. He’s piercing the distance between us and seeing right into the center of me with overwhelming love and compassion.

My first reaction is to hide, as if I could. I still cower a little.

I’ve forgotten my nauseating hunger as I lift the net with all of my might. Others jump out of the boat and swim to greet him as I stay behind to drag the load myself. It’s another miracle altogether that the net still hasn’t ripped.

He’s prepared breakfast and the fire is strong and healthy. The aroma is promising of a fisherman’s feast, and if it wasn't for my sin and shame, I couldn't imagine a more perfect moment than this one.

Most of the fish are still living and trying to escape as I haul them on land, but it’s an effort in vain. We eventually count 153 of them, caught in an instant, after an entire night of nothing. For me too, it's obvious now that my efforts without him are always in vain.

How soon I forget.

There’s an awkward pause, at least for me as I approach him. The symbolism isn’t lost on me as he hands me some bread. I stand nearly naked before him and the heat from the fire is swirling the cool morning air.

I sit and literally devour my breakfast. Never has there been so much satisfaction in warm bread and freshly fried fish. Still, I can’t escape the feeling that I’m the center of attention. My brothers seem intent on reading his face, looking for some disappointment in his eyes, some preparation for a scolding which I’m sure I'll receive.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want it—a lashing, some type of punishment for my behavior so I can know resolution. But nothing will distract him from his leaning posture of grace and forgiveness toward me.

Not even my denial of him.

We finish and he leads us again, much like he used to; he is walking down the beach, and we follow. I'm in front, as I should be, and, as if knowing my earthly hunger was now satisfied, I'm hoping he'll address deeper cravings inside of me.

Am I alright by him? Will I do this again? How can I be so strong in some aspects of my life, and then fail him so miserably? If my choices of late have been destroying me, what choice must I finally make to end this torture?

Apparently, the denial is not a topic of concern for him, so I wonder if he’s already forgotten about it. Instead, he dials in and asks me if I love him. Three times in a row, in fact, in rapid succession, much like those who learned of my betrayal first hand. I wonder if it’s intentional and if I’ll use the same knee jerk, skin deep reaction that I did then. He’s asking me so fast that of course I tell him I love him. Of course I love him more than my brothers love him. I love him as much as he already knows I love him.

I love him. Period. How can he even ask such a question? And how many times must I answer him? How can he doubt my word and my affection?

I wonder, for with each response, I’m charged with a responsibility.

To feed his lambs.

To feed his sheep.

And to follow him.

Rough translation: Don’t just tell me you love me. Anyone can do that. Show me you love me.

He turns to look at me and in an instant, I know my love for him will always pale in comparison to the love he has for me. Why did I spend so much time wallowing in my guilt and shame? What can separate me from his love?

Nothing.

And so I must follow, because somehow, he knows that by giving him lip service, I retain my right to refuse him. And I often will. I must choose to physically follow after him and do what he does, or remain the steward of my own destiny.

And that may be my toughest choice of all.