It was morning. The sky was rimmed with pink, a collage of shadows and light. The sea was churning under the rudder of the peeling boat. The men felt the cold spray against their tired faces as they watched the sun drift over the horizon as if it too was tired. The temperature dropped even as the sun attempted to warm the land. Waves slapped against the keel fiercely now, and the occupants of the boat shivered in the mist. 

 “What a night,” one of them groaned, wiping his face with a salty hand. The comment seemed to take shape in the morning air and float above their bare heads. 

 Two of the men wound the fishing net into a soggy ball and heaved it to the corner of the boat. The youngest straightened and looked out toward the approaching shore line. “Look, someone’s made a fire. I see smoke.”

 “Yeah, you’re right,” another agreed. The sea was golden now, stretching out like an eternity of prayers.

  “Where did he go?” A useless question no one bothered to answer. They didn’t know. Where was he? They had all seen the culmination of thousands of years prophecy and ignorance, heartache and loss. Then he had come, and he had been their best friend. Now that thought was unearthly, dangerous. I was best friends with Yahweh? 

 They were closer to shore now. A bird called, white against the dark sand. They could see a straggly ring of rocks around the fire. A man was kneeling beside it, cooking something over the flames. All of them suddenly remembered supper had been a long time ago. 

 The man stood up and called out to them. “Did you catch anything?”

 “No, bad luck, I’m afraid,” they replied. 

 “Sorry to hear that.” He came closer to the water. “Throw your net on the other side of the boat.” 

 They looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. Wearily, humoring the man, they unrolled the net and lowered it over the side of the boat. 

 It was like all the fish in the entire ocean came to the net at once. It sagged impossibly as dozens of silver bellies flashed in the sunlight. 

 The youngest fisherman was the first to recognize the man. The joy overwhelmed him and his muscles began to shake. “It’s Jesus!” 

 Someone leaped out of the boat and started swimming with fast, giddy strokes toward land. 

 Towing the bulbous net behind the boat, they rowed for shore as quickly as it allowed them. 

 Jesus walked toward them, his sandals making prints on the wet sand. His smile was like a sunrise. “Come and have breakfast with me!” 

 Fish and bread were toasted to a golden perfection over the coals. The fishermen squatted around the fire, their clothes steaming. 

 Here was this infallible grace extended to them yet again. We are best friends with Yahweh. The foam soaked shore line caught the sun and glinted as silver as the waves. 

 All the fishermen could do was worship.