The breath had left Peter hours ago, but he hadn’t noticed until now.
His knees ached from the climb. The mountain wind rasped at his cloak, but he dared not shift his weight. Jesus had walked a short distance away, and the night should have swallowed Him whole—but instead, it spilled light.
Peter blinked hard. The man who’d washed dust from their feet now stood radiant, face like midday, even as stars shivered above the peaks. His robe pulsed white as if lit from within. Not flickering fire. Not torchlight. This was beyond flame. Beyond sky.
He caught John’s hand to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
Then—others.
Two figures flanked Jesus, speaking as if they’d never known death.
Peter’s throat caught. He didn’t need names, somehow. The older one, with eyes like dry riverbeds—he bore the weight of stone tablets in his gaze. Moses. He never entered the Promised Land, yet here he stood on its soil.
The other—Elijah—stood as if he never bowed. Storm in his stance, silence in his smile.
Their words with Jesus drifted just to the edge of hearing—“His departure…fulfillment…Jerusalem.”
Peter stepped forward, heart pounding. “Master—” he stammered, “it…it’s good for us to be here! Let us build three shelters. One for You, one for Moses, one for Elijah—”
John flinched. Even Peter heard it, the way his voice cracked, too loud, trying to hold onto something slipping through his grip like water.
But it was already gone.
A cloud, low and thick, swept over them. Not mist. Not weather.
Peter’s knees hit stone. James yanked his cloak over his face, trembling. Somewhere John whispered a prayer. The light, unbearable, saturated the cloud, and the sound—no thunder, yet it shook them inside out:
“This is My Son, My Chosen One. Listen to Him.”
No echo. Just the weight of it settling into their bones.
And then—they were alone. Jesus, face no longer shining, stood where He had before. No Moses. No Elijah. Just wind, rock, and night.
He looked at each of them. No smile. No sermon. Just eyes, steady and patient.
Peter swallowed hard. His mouth opened, then closed. He knew better.
They descended the mountain in silence.
Halfway down, even the crickets seemed to wait. James stumbled once, caught by John. Peter kept walking.
He wanted to speak, to ask if it had been real, if they’d imagined the prophets, if God had truly spoken.
But something in the hush told him to stop reaching.
They reached the path where the olive trees began again. Jesus paused, lifting a hand toward the horizon where Jerusalem waited like a storm.
Peter looked at Him.
He did not see the glow anymore. But somehow, it was harder now to take his eyes away.
The breath had left Peter hours ago, but he hadn’t noticed until now.
His knees ached from the climb. The mountain wind rasped at his cloak, but he dared not shift his weight. Jesus had walked a short distance away, and the night should have swallowed Him whole—but instead, it spilled light.
Peter blinked hard. The man who’d washed dust from their feet now stood radiant, face like midday, even as stars shivered above the peaks. His robe pulsed white as if lit from within. Not flickering fire. Not torchlight. This was beyond flame. Beyond sky.
He caught John’s hand to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
Then—others.
Two figures flanked Jesus, speaking as if they’d never known death.
Peter’s throat caught. He didn’t need names, somehow. The older one, with eyes like dry riverbeds—he bore the weight of stone tablets in his gaze. Moses. He never entered the Promised Land, yet here he stood on its soil.
The other—Elijah—stood as if he never bowed. Storm in his stance, silence in his smile.
Their words with Jesus drifted just to the edge of hearing—“His departure…fulfillment…Jerusalem.”
Peter stepped forward, heart pounding. “Master—” he stammered, “it…it’s good for us to be here! Let us build three shelters. One for You, one for Moses, one for Elijah—”
John flinched. Even Peter heard it, the way his voice cracked, too loud, trying to hold onto something slipping through his grip like water.
But it was already gone.
A cloud, low and thick, swept over them. Not mist. Not weather.
Peter’s knees hit stone. James yanked his cloak over his face, trembling. Somewhere John whispered a prayer. The light, unbearable, saturated the cloud, and the sound—no thunder, yet it shook them inside out:
“This is My Son, My Chosen One. Listen to Him.”
No echo. Just the weight of it settling into their bones.
And then—they were alone. Jesus, face no longer shining, stood where He had before. No Moses. No Elijah. Just wind, rock, and night.
He looked at each of them. No smile. No sermon. Just eyes, steady and patient.
Peter swallowed hard. His mouth opened, then closed. He knew better.
They descended the mountain in silence.
Halfway down, even the crickets seemed to wait. James stumbled once, caught by John. Peter kept walking.
He wanted to speak, to ask if it had been real, if they’d imagined the prophets, if God had truly spoken.
But something in the hush told him to stop reaching.
They reached the path where the olive trees began again. Jesus paused, lifting a hand toward the horizon where Jerusalem waited like a storm.
Peter looked at Him.
He did not see the glow anymore. But somehow, it was harder now to take his eyes away.
