If that's really you...

"Pull!"

Two, Three, Four

"Pull!"

Two, Three, Four

"Pull!"

     The wind thrashed against the boat, a fiend hell-bent on keeping the twelve men from crossing the lake. For what seemed like an eternity they had been straining against the fury of nature. Peter's arms ached from the toil of rowing, but still he bellowed over the shrieking wind, "Pull!"

     He shot a glance across the boat at his brother, Andrew, straining alongside him against his own oar. He caught Andrew's eye and grimaced, "This night never ends, eh?" They had spent all of the previous day traveling with the Lord, hearing him teach and serving the crowds that followed him, and now they were headed to the next town. That was the way of things following Jesus; teach and travel, teach and travel, the man never stopped. As his disciple, Peter did what he could to alleviate Jesus from the responsibility over the mundane tasks, to let him focus on teaching. He had finished feeding the largest crowd Peter had seen in his life, and after cleaning up, told them to cross the lake to the towns on the other side. That had been five hours ago.

     Still, the black night stretched on. The howling wind whipped blinding waves into their eyes and cut the world down to the small boat, the dark sky, and the spiteful water. Peter's mind started to retreat, walling off the world to protect him from the vicious elements. His eyelids drooped as fatigue crept up his spine, slackening  his arms until they barely retained a grip on his oar. The wind tore at his clothing with its wet fingers, exposing every part of him to its soaking touch, but he didn't care any more. He had detached from the pain. It was unfortunate, definitely. In normal circumstances he would avoid a similar pain, but this time it was beyond his control. There was nothing to be done. If Jesus were here, he could help. Jesus would calm it like he did the last time. But Jesus wasn't here. They were alone.

     In his disconnected mind, Peter looked up and around at the others in the boat. Fear stood plain on their faces. At first, he thought it was terror at the storm, but Phillip was obviously screaming at something. He couldn't make out the words over the howling wind. Several of the others were pointing at something in the darkness. What was it? A man? On the water? It couldn't be.

     From somewhere out of the wind, a voice reached Peter's ears, "Take heart, it is I. Do not be afraid." 

     Did he know that voice? 

     He shielded his eyes from the wind and peered into the night. It definitely looked like a man. There was only one man, (if it truly was a man) that could be out this far on the water. His disconnected mind had trouble grasping the fact that this may be Jesus. He had thought they were alone in this fight, that Jesus had left them to fend for themselves. There were dozens of times he had pleaded with God to save them from the storm, to no avail. He had given up. There was no winning this fight. The waves were too strong, the wind too fierce. Jesus could do it, but Jesus was the Christ! Peter was just a man. But somewhere, deep down, Peter wouldn't let himself give up. His mind tore at the walls he had put up as protection. Perhaps, if Jesus could conquer the storm, He could help him do the same. Unsteadily, he staggered to his feet. Bracing himself against the rowing bench, he cupped both hands to his mouth and shouted to the dim figure on the waves.

     "Lord! If it is you, command me to come to you on the water!"

     A powerfully familiar voice came over the wind, moving Peter to the bone and filling him with hope.

     "Come."