That day … well it was a day like no other ever had been, and it changed everything about all the days to come. I’ll never forget it.
Jonathan and me, we did everything together. After all, our lives were bound together before anyone else even knew of our existence. Born on the same day, we’d already spent nine months together – it’s a bond that held us close through everything life threw at us. And we didn’t have many years before life began to be a struggle. Our Dad was a fisherman. Going out on the boat, every day. Nighttime … early morning … whenever the conditions were right. But those who fish can’t always choose when to work – if the family needs to be fed, fish need to be caught.
Mum hated it when he was out through the night. Maybe she had some kind of premonition. I don’t know. But one morning, after a bad storm, Dad’s boat never came home. He, and two others working for him, were never found. The others’ families blamed Dad, saying he never should have been out that night – all the signs of a bad storm were there. He was greedy they said. Dad wasn’t greedy. We were hungry. He’d gone for us, so it was our fault. Dad had died because of us, and Mum was outcast, scapegoated as the one who brought pain and suffering to our community. All because of us being hungry. Hunger can kill. That’s what I learned that day.
I don’t know how Mum survived. Grieving, four children to bring up, and no prospect of work now that she was considered a bad omen. Even her friends abandoned her. Jonathan and me, we were the eldest, and so at just 7 years old we had to find food for the family. The days were relentless. The task never-ending. And our rumbling stomachs, and grieving hearts, were never filled.
Sometimes we’d find scraps – on the shore when the nets had been emptied – maybe half a fish or two if we were lucky; on the streets we’d collect rotting fruit with small bits we could still eat, or barley bread that had been burned or left too long in the sun and gone hard as rocks. Believe it or not these morsels filled us with joy because at least we had something to take home.
One day … that day … there was a buzz in the village. Now we were experts at making ourselves invisible, it was safer that way, but we listened, and heard people talking about someone called Jesus. Soon crowds, whole families, were rushing to the big hill on the far side of the sea. It was quite a walk but we followed, hoping there might be food dropped along the way. We’d already got some fish scraps and bread, so it looked like we’d be going home with food for all our bellies that evening. Mum would be happy, and we might even hear a story or two from her before sleep. But it all turned out a bit different to that.
When we got to the hill there were already thousands of people there – they’d come from all over. We could see who the visitors were – they wore different clothes, and spoke with strange accents. One of them, Peter he said his name was, spotted us. He asked where the rest of our family was, and we told some story to stop his questions – it’s dangerous being two children without anyone to look out for us, and men scared us. We’d only really known Mum, and our two sisters. Men? They kicked us, spat at us, called us names that filled us with shame.
But Peter … well he was different. He had a gentle voice. He was sort of child-like – played games with us with the pebbles we found lying about; smiled at us, laughed with us not at us, and when he smiled his eyes sparkled. Any fears we might have had dissolved with Peter. Maybe he was like our Dad? I liked him. Maybe that’s why we found ourselves giving away the baskets with our hard-won fish and bread when he and the others came looking for food.
I still don’t understand what happened next, but somehow by nightfall everyone on the hill had eaten and there was food left over. Oh I wish Mum had been there. But of course she was hiding at home, trying to keep herself and the girls safe. And waiting for us to get back so they could have something to eat. We hardly noticed it getting late, but suddenly it seemed the crowds were gone, and the newcomers were getting into a rickety old boat.
Mum had no idea what we got up to during the days, but one thing had always been clear. We’d promised never to go out on the sea. Then we could never drown, and if we drowned she said she couldn’t go on living. So of course we never had and knew that we never would go onto the water. But sometimes we do the very thing we know we shouldn’t. Well haven’t you ever done that? Life gets complicated sometimes, and we didn’t have much choice. We could either walk home, two children, alone in the dark, risking being attacked, beaten, taken as slaves, or we could do as Peter, the one with sparkly eyes said, and go safely with them across the sea to home. So we went.
It was thrilling, and fun at first – the water was calm, and those in the boat were all so excited by what had just happened. No-one was paying much attention to the sky, and the rising wind and waves, but Jonathan and me, we started to feel scared. We shouldn’t even be there. What would Mum say? Why had we done it – so stupid. So selfish. This time we really were to blame for whatever happened, and as the storm grew so did our terror. They worked through the night, trying to make it to shore, but the boat didn’t go anywhere. Everyone was exhausted, shouting, soaked, battered by the storm. Jonathan and me, we crouched in the stern of the boat, clinging to each other.
Eventually, that impenetrable little change in the light that speaks of dawn long before it arrives reached the boat. Peter came to us then, and his eyes told us he was sorry. He promised us we’d be safe home by the morning. Did I believe him? No. Of course not. The sails were ripped, the boat was still being tossed on the waves, and at that moment he was no longer someone we could trust. In fact I think I hated him then.
Suddenly through the wind we heard a voice, clear and strong. It rang out like a bell, sounded hopeful. It broke through our fear and exhaustion.
“Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”
Peter jumped up and started some other crazy game, shouting back that he would go out on the water. I mean, what was he? Had we been lured into this crazed trip by a madman? It was then we dared to raise our heads, and saw the man who’d spoken, Jesus. We thought we had gone mad then. I mean, he was on the water. Walking! And reaching out his hand to Peter, who stepped out of the boat and onto the waves, walking towards him.
It was still windy, big powerful waves crashing against the boat, and Peter was hit by a big one that plunged him under, before he appeared again, gasping for air, crying out. Jesus caught him in his arms, and, still somehow staying on top of the water, carried Peter to the boat, talking to him all the way.
When they reached the boat, the tormenting wind that had screamed in our ears and battered our bodies fell silent and still, and everyone on that little boat fell still too. In that moment there was peace. There was love that wrapped over and around and under and within us all. There was a deep joy that reminded me of something I’d known once, within me, at my very beginning.
First Peter, and then all the adults on that wee boat fell to their knees before Jesus, murmuring, and mouthing words. And at that moment Jonathan whispered in my ear, ‘not in the wind, but in the sound of sheer silence’. And I knew then, as I’ve known every day since, that this man, Jesus, truly is the Son of God.