The stars had disappeared, the sky just beginning to turn gray along the eastern horizon, and still the seven men drifted in their boat, some two-hundred cubits from shore. Some were sleeping, others, with half-open eyes, were making themselves busy about the boat. Shimon was wide awake, and he was upset.
The one thing I know, and I fail at that, too.
Dawn was fast approaching, and the net was completely empty of fish. Shimon hadn’t had a catch this bad since he was just a boy learning from his father. In fact, he was sure he had never gone a whole night without catching even a single fish. That was simply unheard of.
Shimon had just finished lowering the net back into the water for one last try before the sun rose above the horizon when a voice broke the quiet: “How’s your catch?”
Shimon looked up, spying the owner of the voice, a man along the shoreline who waved in greeting.
“Your boat looks empty to me. Did you catch anything at all?”
By now, the stranger’s voice had woken the rest of the men on the boat.
“No,” Shimon shouted back. “All the fish must have left the sea. We’ve caught nothing at all.”
“Try casting the net on the other side of the boat,” the man advised.
Shimon looked to Ya’aqov, “He can’t be serious, can he?”
“He seems to be,” Ya’aqov looked puzzled. “But that’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.”
“Old man,” Shimon started to say, but he suddenly stopped himself. What use would arguing with this man be? It wasn’t worth yelling across the water just to convince some stranger who knew nothing of fishing that his idea made no sense whatsoever. Why not just humor the man, show him his idea wouldn’t work? “We’ll try your idea, and we’ll see what happens.”
Shimon thought he detected a smile on the man’s face, but it was much too far away to tell details like that.
The three experienced fishermen began to haul up the heavy, water-soaked net, and they brought it to the opposite side of their small boat. With a grunt, the three tossed the net into the water, letting it slide once again between their fingers as the weights brought it to the bottom.
Even before the net had reached the bottom, Shimon felt a tug on the ropes. A snag? It couldn’t be a fish. Then he felt another tug, and another. Soon, the entire net was twisting and pulling in his hands with what were the unmistakable struggles of fish attempting to free themselves.
“Ya’aqov! Y’honatan! Look!”
The men stared incredulously at the net as it pulsed and thrashed in the water.
“Quick, help me pull it up before the net breaks,” Shimon smiled a massive grin and took off his heavy cloak to prepare for the hard labor of lifting the net. What a catch indeed! “All of you, come help me lift this!”
The seven men pulled with all their strength, but the net was so full that they weren’t able to lift it. The weight of the struggling, writhing fish threatened to tip the small boat. It was the biggest catch of fish Shimon had ever seen! He hooted and laughed with the laughter that only a proud fisherman makes, loud and excited, boastful yet humble.
“Shimon!” Y’honatan suddenly broke into Shimon’s excitement, pointing to the stranger on the shore. “It’s Jesus! It has to be! It’s the Master!”
Shimon stopped and looked towards the shore, understanding suddenly coming to him. It had to be him. It had to be! Excitement and longing welled up in his chest like a fire. If Shimon had stopped to think, he would have realized how foolish he looked, standing with mouth wide open. If he had stopped to think, he would have grabbed an oar and told the others to do the same. If he had stopped to think, he wouldn’t have put his cloak back on and jumped into the water. But Shimon didn’t stop to think. And so Shimon, fully clothed, jumped into the water and swam to shore.
The fisherman swam like a man drowning at sea who spotted land only a few hundred cubits away. He swam like a child returning to his father, joy and desire in every stroke of his arms. He swam like a man with one purpose in mind and one goal in his heart.
Wait, he had said, until the promise of the Father.
As Shimon swam with all his might, he began to realize it really didn’t matter what this whole waiting thing meant. He could see things now, not see them perfectly, but he could see where he fit in. His job was to wait. How long? He had no idea. Wait for what? Again, Shimon couldn’t answer that. And what would he do after the waiting? Still, he had no response. His job was to wait, and wait he would. He would wait until the promise had come, whatever that meant.
In some strange way he couldn’t really understand, it all made sense as he raced towards the shore, towards Jesus.
Somehow, it all made sense to him now.
Wait, he had said, until the promise of the Father.
