The morning mist clung low over the Galilean shore, veiling the distant hills and pressing cool against his skin. A soft hush stretched over the lake, as if the earth itself tiptoed around wounds too deep for words. The town of Tiberias stirred behind him, Roman banners fluttering from stone parapets, but Peter’s heart heard only the sound of waves lapping the sand—and the echo of his denials, still ringing three days past.
He crouched by the fire, hands thrust toward the coals, not for warmth, but distraction. Smoke clung to him—he hardly noticed. He had returned to fishing, to nets and silence, though the sea no longer soothed him. Since the arrest in Gethsemane, the quick-tongued rooster, and the burning shame in his gut, Peter had lost the courage that once made him step onto water.
And now... He lived, but could barely meet his own reflection.
Footsteps approached, crunching over pebbles. He didn’t look up. The others had gone walking after the meal—bread cooked over coals, fish already laid out. Again, Jesus had appeared to them. Again, He had fed them. And though joy had flickered in Peter’s chest at the sight of the Risen One, it was chased off swiftly by the weight of memory.
“Simon, son of John,” the voice came—familiar, yet impossible to grow used to. Gentle, but with a gravity that silenced the surf.
Peter flinched. Slowly, he lifted his gaze. Jesus stood there, not with stern eyes or clenched jaw, but with that strange calm Peter remembered from nights in storm-tossed boats.
“Do you love me more than these?” Jesus asked, nodding toward the boats, the nets, the fire—perhaps even their friends.
Peter swallowed, throat dry. “Yes, Lord... you know I love you.”
“Feed my lambs.”
It was a command, yes—but it sounded like a hand outstretched across the cavern between them.
Jesus stepped closer. “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”
Peter hesitated. His hands trembled in his lap. “Yes, Lord. You know I love you.”
“Take care of my sheep,” Jesus said again.
Silence fell. Waves murmured against the shoreline. Peter thought of the courtyard again, the girl’s voice asking, Aren’t you one of His? Of his third denial shouted into darkness.
Then a third time: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”
Peter’s breath hitched. The question stung—but beneath it, grace stirred. As if each repetition unwound a denial, washed it clean.
He blinked down tears. “Lord... you know everything. You know that I love you.”
A long pause. Then Jesus smiled—not with amusement, but with mourning turned to joy. “Feed my sheep.”
Peter exhaled—deep, ragged. The ache in his chest softened into something bearable. Purpose. Calling. Forgiveness not just spoken, but proven.
Jesus turned toward the path that led beyond the sea. “Follow me,” He said.
And Peter rose. Not to run, not to speak, but to walk behind the one who had loved him still.
He would not return to fishing.
The morning mist clung low over the Galilean shore, veiling the distant hills and pressing cool against his skin. A soft hush stretched over the lake, as if the earth itself tiptoed around wounds too deep for words. The town of Tiberias stirred behind him, Roman banners fluttering from stone parapets, but Peter’s heart heard only the sound of waves lapping the sand—and the echo of his denials, still ringing three days past.
He crouched by the fire, hands thrust toward the coals, not for warmth, but distraction. Smoke clung to him—he hardly noticed. He had returned to fishing, to nets and silence, though the sea no longer soothed him. Since the arrest in Gethsemane, the quick-tongued rooster, and the burning shame in his gut, Peter had lost the courage that once made him step onto water.
And now... He lived, but could barely meet his own reflection.
Footsteps approached, crunching over pebbles. He didn’t look up. The others had gone walking after the meal—bread cooked over coals, fish already laid out. Again, Jesus had appeared to them. Again, He had fed them. And though joy had flickered in Peter’s chest at the sight of the Risen One, it was chased off swiftly by the weight of memory.
“Simon, son of John,” the voice came—familiar, yet impossible to grow used to. Gentle, but with a gravity that silenced the surf.
Peter flinched. Slowly, he lifted his gaze. Jesus stood there, not with stern eyes or clenched jaw, but with that strange calm Peter remembered from nights in storm-tossed boats.
“Do you love me more than these?” Jesus asked, nodding toward the boats, the nets, the fire—perhaps even their friends.
Peter swallowed, throat dry. “Yes, Lord... you know I love you.”
“Feed my lambs.”
It was a command, yes—but it sounded like a hand outstretched across the cavern between them.
Jesus stepped closer. “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”
Peter hesitated. His hands trembled in his lap. “Yes, Lord. You know I love you.”
“Take care of my sheep,” Jesus said again.
Silence fell. Waves murmured against the shoreline. Peter thought of the courtyard again, the girl’s voice asking, Aren’t you one of His? Of his third denial shouted into darkness.
Then a third time: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”
Peter’s breath hitched. The question stung—but beneath it, grace stirred. As if each repetition unwound a denial, washed it clean.
He blinked down tears. “Lord... you know everything. You know that I love you.”
A long pause. Then Jesus smiled—not with amusement, but with mourning turned to joy. “Feed my sheep.”
Peter exhaled—deep, ragged. The ache in his chest softened into something bearable. Purpose. Calling. Forgiveness not just spoken, but proven.
Jesus turned toward the path that led beyond the sea. “Follow me,” He said.
And Peter rose. Not to run, not to speak, but to walk behind the one who had loved him still.
He would not return to fishing.
