I'm not much of a writer, but I need to detail my thoughts. The weight of today is so heavy on my heart it feels as though its about to burst. And we wouldn't want that.
Everyone always talks about that singular instant in their lives when everything suddenly became clear and they realized their purpose, their reason for being placed on this planet. Like when my father pulled in his first net of fish, he says he knew for certain that God created him to be a fisherman. Or when my mother first laid eyes on her firstborn, my older sister. I'm only seventeen years old, but I have a feeling that I experienced my very own life-defining moment this morning, in a dusty, smelly fish market.
My name's Mark, by the way, and as you might have guessed, I'm the son of a fisherman. We live in Capernaum, my family and I. I'm not from the wealthiest family, and I'm not exactly what you'd call a scholar. I mean, I've read the Torah, but I'm certainly no rabbi. People always tell my mother that I'm a very nice, very average son. She likes that. I don't. I'm not trying to be prideful or anything, but I've always felt like my life was destined for more than "very average." I'm restless. Naturally, I'm expected to take over the fishing business, but I can't help but feel like there's got to be more to life than working hard and raising a family and keeping the Sabbath and passing on your trade to your eldest son.
But what do I know? I'm a poor fisherman's son from a poor village. Who am I to be pondering questions about the meaning of life? Philosophers and theologians have wrestled with these issues for centuries upon centuries. They've pondered these questions for years and they're no closer to the answers than when they first started asking themselves the questions. I'm in no position to stir up the formula, right?
Everything changed today.
My father and I were on our daily commute into the marketplace. It was about eleven, and we'd been up before six, out on the sea, catching fish. We'd caught a pretty big haul, nothing to run home and tell mother about, though. As we walked, pulling the cart full of smelly, still-writhing fish, you could hear the water inside of our sandals. SQUISH. SQUASH. SQUISH. My fingers felt old and wrinkled like my grandmother's feet. My hair was dirty and I swear that there must have been at least 6 pieces of seaweed stuck in it. But that didn't matter. We were fishermen, not princes. We had no reputation to uphold, only fish to sell.
Five minutes after we'd set up, a Roman soldier, probably a high-up official, came running through the market, dashing up to a man surrounded by twelve or so men, I'd say. The Roman got down on his knees and pleaded with the man to heal his servant, who had died just earlier that day. He said that, even as a Centurion, he was not worthy to have this Jewish man enter his household. The Jewish man told him that he had never seen a man with such faith, Jew or Gentile. The Roman ran back to his house, to find his servant alive and well. I was completely amazed. Naturally, a crowd had begun to form and my father figured that it was good for business and swiftly kicked into salesman overdrive.
Much to my father's dismay, I abandoned our stand and ran over to the crowd. I only heard fragments of information, but I learned that the man's name was Jesus. A scruffily-bearded man told me that if I was looking for answers, Jesus was the one to ask. There was something comforting about that. Finally, I came face to face with this Jesus. I introduced myself, as did he, and then he embraced me, seaweed hair and all, with an unconditional, all encompassing love I had never felt before.
I barely knew this man, or what answers he and his followers could possibly have for me, but just talking to them, something just felt right. Something had changed in me that I couldn't explain and that I can't explain. I can't describe it, I just know it's important.
nicely done Ian!
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