It was hot in the small room, but the evening breeze was beginning to blow, and the seven men were grateful for its cooling effect. As the red sun neared the horizon, things outside and inside the house were quiet. It had been quiet for quite some time now. No one spoke a word.
For his part, Shimon was thinking.
But he wasn’t sure how to put into words just what was going through his mind. It was not so much complete sentences, or even complete thoughts for that matter, that filled his thinking. Rather, his mind drifted nearly aimlessly through memories, thoughts, hopes… Over the past three years, a lot had happened in his life, so he had many paths over which to wander, many wrong turns to explore. His mind was a mouse lost in a maze.
“I’m going fishing,” Shimon broke the silence and the rollercoaster of his thoughts, standing to his feet.
“I’ll go with,” Ya’aqov quickly spoke up. The others gave similar voices of agreement. At least they would be doing something now.
As they descended the stairs, Shimon wondered how on earth these seven men had become so close. Three of them had grown up poor fishermen, one had been a carpenter, another a blacksmith from a wealthy family, and two others owned vineyards. How the seven of them had managed to become best friends, Shimon had no idea. He only knew that these men were closer to him than his own family, and he was sure every one of them would stand by his side no matter what.
In the quickly gathering dark, Shimon and the men reached the dock and began to prepare the nets. He, Ya’aqov, and Y’honatan had grown up fishing; none of them needed any light to accomplish their task. In the waning light, the others helped in what ways they could, having learned some small bits of the trade through their three years together.
It was quiet as they worked, the only sound coming from those few tired fishermen who, for whatever reason, could not find rest at night and so busied themselves preparing their own boats and nets. Some fished the sea at night because it was the best time for the big fish, but many fished at night out of need. Some needed to be alone. Some needed money. Some needed to feel useful. Some, like the seven men here, didn’t know what they needed.
The wooden joints creaked slightly, just enough to tell Shimon that his boat was old and in need of repairs, and the sand scratched along the bow as the men pushed the craft into the water, loaded with supplies for the night.
The quiet lapping of the water and the rhythmic beating of the oars was a healing salve to Shimon’s troubled mind.
Wait, he had said, until the promise of the Father.
About two-hundred cubits from the shore, Shimon and Y’honatan tossed the large net overboard, making sure to keep it from tangling as they did so. It slid quickly through Shimon’s calloused fingers. Now would begin the waiting. By dawn, if the fishing was good, their net would be full.
Shimon broke the silence on the water, whispering hoarsely, “What do you suppose he meant when he told us to wait?”
The blank faces that met Shimon reminded him that no one knew the answers he was looking for. In fact, if he hadn’t spoken his question, someone else would have asked the same thing. What were these men supposed to wait for? And what were they supposed to do?
As Shimon leaned back in the boat, he thought of how, only three years ago, he would have been completely satisfied to spend his life on the sea. It had been his entire childhood and all that he had ever known as an adult. It used to be that he’d spend the night fishing, and he’d look at the stars and simply enjoy the beauty. Now, as he leaned back, Shimon couldn’t look at the stars. It reminded him of too many things, and it made him wonder again over those elusive words.
Wait, he had said, until the promise of the Father.
As the night wore on, the men worked quietly, speaking only when necessary and often not even then. Each man knew his role to play. Some, the experienced fishermen, checked the net constantly, testing for fish and feeling for snags; Shimon, Ya’aqov, and Y’honatan took turns making sure this, their most valuable tool, was in good working order. Natan, Eliyah, and Ta’om together worked the oars whenever necessary, and Mattai watched the rudder.
Watching the net, Shimon felt himself almost able to forget everything, to slip back into the guise of a simple fisherman whose greatest desire in life was to bring a full catch to the morning markets. There was something in him that longed to return to that simplicity. What a wonderful thing it had been to be satisfied by the backbreaking labor of dragging a loaded net onto the boat, all without capsizing. To love hard work. To be satisfied by the sweat falling from his face, the ache of his muscles, the burning in his hands and his back. He could almost forget the last three years, almost forget it all.
But almost forgetting is not the same as forgetting.
Wait, he had said, until the promise of the Father.
The thought came back to Shimon again, ripping him once again into the present, far from the simple life of a fisherman. As much as he longed, he simply could not forget some things. The last three years had done much to change him, and he knew there was no going back. He had been changed; he was no longer the fisherman he had been, and he could never return.
