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When we brought the boats back into Capernaum in the afternoon, we expected that we would just unload our meager show of fish for sale under Simon’s account. But as soon as we stepped onto land, I heard a shout from the marketplace, “There’s the man.” I immediately scanned the crowd, looking for soldiers who might be out to arrest me, but there were none.
“It’s the healer,” rose another shout, and now people were turning and craning their necks to look in our direction. Instinctively, I turned and glanced over my shoulder to see if they were looking at another boat behind us. Then I saw who was standing near the mast of our own vessel, and who was drawing the attention of the crowd.
Jesus.
“I have a pain in my foot. Can you make it go away?”
“I have a pain in my arm. Can you make it go away?”
“I have a pain in the neck. Can you make her go away?”
At first I was puzzled, but then I remembered that Simon’s mother had gotten out of her sickbed to attend to us as her guests. Word must have gotten around town while we were in Bethsaida earlier in the day. Apparently, people were attributing the old lady’s burst of energy to my older brother. But these men didn’t look like they were really in pain—they were just joking. Jesus grinned and shook his head at the gibes as he climbed down from the boat. A hubbub of noise surrounded him as the men all called out their supposed ailments and made mock pleas for his help.
And he played along. “Okay, you’re healed already—now get your lazy ass back to work,” he shouted to one of them, and then he turned and pointed at another. “And as for your pain in the neck, you promised to stay with her until death do you part. So if she has to go, you go first.” A chorus of laughter erupted as the man in question pulled a finger across his own throat as if it were a knife.
He started to lead the crowd away from the boats so we could get on with our work without attracting attention. But the crowd suddenly grew quiet and stopped moving. I stepped away from the boat and peered through the crowd to see what was happening.
A man stood facing Jesus. Judging by the material of his robe, he appeared well off. But that didn’t matter. I saw the still figure of a small girl cradled in his arms. She wasn’t moving.
My brother stepped forward immediately. “How long has she been like this,” he asked the man.
He had a vacant look in his eyes. “She grew sick this morning, shivering. She stopped breathing just a minute ago.”
Jesus placed the palm of his left hand on the girl’s forehead, and quickly lowered his ear to her chest. “Give her to me,” he said, taking the girl into his arms without waiting for a reply. He lowered himself, placing her flat on her back on the ground. He pinched her nostrils shut and placed his mouth over hers and blew air into her lungs, apparently trying to give her the breath of life. A man stepped in front of me, but I looked over his shoulder. The entire crowd was silent as if every man was holding his breath.
Finally, the silence broke.
“I’m thirsty,” the girl’s voice complained loudly as she coughed.
Jesus pulled his face back and looked deeply into her eyes. “Someone bring us some water,” he cried out. “She’s thirsty, and so am I!”
If every man had been holding his breath a moment before, I heard the collective intake of air as every one of them gasped. Those who were closest to Jesus suddenly drew back as if he was a leper and they were afraid he might touch them. Jesus stood up with the girl in his arms, looking angrily at the faces around him.
“Are all of you deaf?” he shouted. “This girl needs water. Go get some immediately!” Several men scrambled to follow his orders. “And bring a blanket too—she’s cold. Now get moving before I have to knock a few of your heads together.”
One of them came from the well with a ladle. Jesus took it from him and, to the surprise of those close enough to see, took a sip of water himself before offering the ladle to the little girl. I guess he wasn’t joking when he said he was thirsty too. The girl stared into his eyes as she drank from the ladle, and then she smiled.
Then someone arrived with a small blanket woven of lamb’s wool. At Jesus’ direction they draped the blanket on the arms of the girl’s father as he held them out in front of himself. Then Jesus gingerly passed the girl to her father’s arms, and lifted the fringe of the blanket to cover her with it. Her eyes never left his face.
“What is your name?” the father asked.
“I am Jesus of Nazareth. I came here with some friends just yesterday.”
“Well, Jesus of Nazareth, how can I repay you?” The man looked like he could afford to pay plenty.
But my brother shook his head. “Give the girl plenty of water and keep her warm. She’ll grow hungry later on, and she can eat. But not too much at first. Then, go to your rabbi at the synagogue and give thanks to Abba as the rabbi instructs you.”
The man was insistent. “No, I asked how I can repay you.”
Jesus had started to turn away but stopped and looked at the man solemnly. “It would grieve me if she grew sick again. So you can repay me by giving thanks to the Father and asking him to help keep your daughter safe.”
“But wait—who is this Father?”
Again, a moment of silence before he answered. “The Father is the Lord, the God of Abraham and Sara, of Isaac and Rachel and Leah. It is he who healed your daughter. Give thanks to him, not me.”
With that, he walked straight through the crowd and set off in the direction of Simon’s house. Leaving the others behind to finish unloading the fish, I struggled to get around the crowd.
“How did you do that?” I asked breathlessly when I finally caught up with him.
He glanced at me and shrugged. “You’ll learn how to do it if you work at it.”
“No,” I scoffed, “I could never learn to do that.”
He tilted his head as he looked at me with a scolding eye. “You’d better learn. I don’t want to have to do this all by myself, you know.”
Simon of Capernaum had not sailed with us to Bethsaida, instead staying home with his mother. Hearing our voices, he stepped out the front door of his house. Jesus stopped on front of him and tilted back to look up at the big man’s face. “Simon,” he said.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Not you,” he laughed. “Okay, that’s the first thing we have to sort out. I’ve got too many Simons around me, so one of you has to change.” He looked up at the massive Simon of Capernaum again and seemed to make up his mind. “You look like a giant rock, so I’m going to call you Peter, the Rock.”
Simon of Capernaum harrumphed and pointed at me. “Why should I change my name? Why don’t you change his?”
Jesus laughed. “Does this scrawny pretty boy look like a rock to you? No, a name like the Rock will strike fear into the hearts of all who oppose us. Do you think anyone would be afraid if they heard, ‘Everybody step back — the Pretty Boy is coming!’ Nah, I know what I’m doing. Trust me on this,” he said, winking at me.
I stifled a laugh inwardly. Thank goodness Judas wasn’t around to hear that last remark.