Last week Peter, Thomas, Nathanael, James and John all went to Sea of Tiberias to do some fishing. I'd gone home for a bit as well, all of us needing a break from this city, from the prying eyes of the Romans. And most of all, our fish supply and our money supply needed to be refurbished. I got back to Jerusalem first, to this house we're all sharing for the time being. The next day, they all came back, with fish, with money, and with stories of a visit from Joshua.
Peter didn't recognize him. I can not judge him for that. It's no secret that in the garden that morning, it was only when he called my name that I knew who he was. Still, Peter, his human eyes, was blinded by the vision that is Joshua. And Joshua is different now. There is no denying that. The story of their encounter is Peter's to tell, not mine, so I'll leave it to him. What I struggle with is my own envy. It has been over a week since I've seen him. And I understand that he has work to do, that others must see. Understanding is not the same as patience or peace. My head is clear. My heart--not so much. Even my dreams are foggy these days. I see him, but it's not obvious what he's saying, what he wants. My sister reminds me I was never very good a sharing. And I truly, with all of my being, believe that his words, his teachings, his miracles, his resurrection--these things must be shared. But him--the man, if he even is a man anymore, if he hasn't already become fully God--the man who I knew when he was a boy, who giggled with me over silly jokes, whose touch could calm and stir my heart all at once--that man, that Joshua, my Joshua--that I'm not so good at losing and at sharing.
And I feel guilty for my struggle.