Sivan 2
| P |
eter is a descendant of a nomadic tribe. Euodia, his mother, is a gnarled woman, dark, serious. She and Peter built this house after her husband died. She had had enough of desert privation. Last night she spread a special table for my homecoming: pomegranate juice, melon, cheese, bread, nuts, chromis and another fish, clarias, my favorite. Euodia is an expert with olive oil—perhaps some are nomad recipes. At supper time she accepted me easily; Matthew and Peter were wary, afraid, shy.
While we were eating, Peter said:
“Master, how can it be you were crucified eight days ago... Can you say that you are well?” He brushed his hand over his yellow beard. “I couldn’t forget the terror...will you help us understand? When all of us meet will you explain? Is it faith?...”
We were eating at a makeshift table under Peter’s olives; it was well after sunset and we felt the quiet of the extensive fields that make Peter’s home a retreat.
Matthew, picking at his supper, nervous, kept watching my hands—I knew he was studying the scars.
“I hope you never return to Jerusalem,” he exclaimed.
I agreed: I agreed for several reasons: one reason was my desire to send my disciples to remote places, villages, towns.
“Our work is to be carried out among our countrymen while governments interfere.”