It is the nets I remember most,
even after all these years –
the rough cords; the knots;
the weight of the heavy nets
upon my calloused fingers.
God, I wish I had a denarius
for every time I’ve dreamed
about those silly, slimy nets!
Of course, it was not just the nets
we left behind: it was a house,
and a family to go home to.
It was knowing what to expect,
what the next day might bring.
With Jesus, there was no telling,
truly no telling, what he might
be up to next: Arguing with a Pharisee.
Healing a leper. Sitting down
to talk theology with a woman,
for God’s sake!
That’s what he said, by the way:
He did it all for God’s sake.
And somehow, I believed him.
Somehow, I believe him still.
And somehow, to this day,
I am still following,
following as best I can,
even though I still miss
the light on the lake, boat
rocking under my feet.
Even though I still dream
about gathering those nets
in my cracked, calloused hands.
Photo by Riddhiman Bhowmik on Unsplash
A delightful poem, and a fine way to begin this day. Thank you.
Thank you, Thomas, for your words of encouragement.
That’s Peter! Ya got him and brought him.
So grateful.
Please give Naomi Nye my greetings and hopes for comfort
Thank you, Jack. It was “they left their nets….” in Mark’s account of the call of Peter that led me down this path. Once I started on that path, this poem almost wrote itself.
Sadly, I do not know Naomi; I know several people who do know her, but she and I have never met.
Thank you for this hands-on net-work, a felt blessing.
Of course he would remember the nets, this simple, course fisherman. The nets that brought him his daily sustenance were such an important part of his journey. And, in a sense, he never really left them, as he became a fisher of men.
Thank you for a lovely poem.