I cannot forget what he said:
"Simon, Satan has asked to sift you like wheat."
I am Simon, aka Peter. Please don't call me
'The Rock.' That was Jesus — who always loved

a nickname — getting ahead of himself.
He saw in me things that none of my friends
could see. Things that even I couldn't see.
Things that weren't there. But he was sure.

He was always sure, except for once.
"Who do people say that I am?" he asked.
He was groping for an answer.
So, I blurted out what we were all thinking.
"You're the Messiah!" I said. "You're the Son of God."

We were thinking it, but not with any certainty.
It was a line cast out ahead of us in the hope
that we could drag ourselves upstream
against the current.

Now it's over. He is dead. And we are adrift.
We are huddled like castaways in a boat.
Was it all for nothing, his sufferings, our hopes?
I can go back to fishing. I will always be a fisherman.