We continued for some time in our wanderings without adverse incident and free of care.

"With regard to what is possible for God," laughed Jesus, "Look at yourselves! See how he has brought you from the rogues that you were to passably amenable creatures!" His eyes examined us with a look of mild approval. "Simon, you no longer smell of dead fish. What is impossible with men, is possible with God. End of debate!"

Peter was not amused. "We left everything--our work, our homes--to follow you, Lord. It has been difficult." His jaw set. "I have missed my children, time with Joanna, private time, intimate time, for months now. My sandals, my knees, my bones; all worn down by these damnable roads we travel. At times it feels as if we have endured hardship the like of which I have never seen at sea; what then will there be for us?"

Those of us who were non-committal about Peter's clodishness were, henceforth, converted. It had never occurred to me that following Jesus was sacrifice. But then, I was younger than most of the others, had no family, no wife (at this time), no business I had spent my life building. Oh, I know there were those who would later refer to our time with him as sacrificial. Even severe.

For me, however, the day that I knew Jesus loved me and wanted me among those closest to him; was as though I have been given wings. My feet were suddenly released from the sucking mud and set, instead, upon a rock. I felt lifted and cleansed. Now after all these years of hardship and disappointment and that yet to come, I will perhaps acknowledge the point. Yet and still, when I remember the days I wallowed in life without him--if it was, indeed, living--I would not trade a single moment of my present faith for a lifetime of such wallowing. I cannot even yet bring myself to ask, "What's in it for me?" "Come to me," he said, "and I will give you rest." I have found that invitation to be true. I am, therefore, too grateful for what I have--to complain about what I have not.

But his response to Peter was strange. "At the hour," he said, "when the Son of Man is to claim the throne of his glory, you also, who have followed me, shall sit on twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel." Twelve tribes. Twelve thrones. Twelve simple men whom Jesus had chosen.

As to Peter, I could not tell what he thought or felt about Jesus' answer. Surely, he must have felt flattered, perhaps humbled, perhaps a bit awed. I did wonder at the time--although no longer--of what of the rest of us. What reward had we? It really didn't matter. Just the thought of eternity in intimacy with him was more than I could ask. As David put it,

"I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than to dwell in the tents of the wicked."

And now after the deed, after the dice and the elevation of my friend Matthias, I wondered why I was not also chosen. I felt more than a little left out; yet strangely, I felt wondrously disengaged. This odd "sense," if you will, was confirmed some years after Jesus' death.

It occurred that I was in prayer with two men of black skin. Both men dearly loved our Lord and served him without distraction from secular affairs. We sat in chairs, the three of us, and as was my habit, my eyes remained open in prayer. (I've never quite understood why people close their eyes to pray as if God were somehow inside their head.) One of these two men I knew well. We had served the Lord together in preaching and teaching. It was he who had invited me to pray with them. The other man was from his native soil in Africa. What he was doing on our foreign soil I did not know, but here he was, praying in the same room with us.

As I observed him speaking in prayer, it came upon me to lay my hands on his head and pray for him. I resisted the impulse thinking how foolish it would appear when the thought intruded, "If you don't, you will miss the blessing I have for you." Believing this thought to have come from the Father, I extended my arms, buried my hands in his black hair and offered a prayer on his behalf. When I had finished, he opened his eyes and looking at me said, "I have a word from our Lord for you: 'I will make your feet as hind's feet and set you in high places.'"

Perhaps this would not have resonated so deeply within me had not my sweet Juliana, only a few days before, sent me a missive. It contained these same words from God, "I will make your feet as hind's feet and set you in high places." She had heard them in Synagogue the day before. She felt, oddly, that God had let those words be read at that time so that I might know of them and believe them to be a promise to me. Coincidence? Or--confirmation? I am not certain. My faith is too weak.

Since that day I have journeyed many roads in my faith. In the passing summers and winters over the many decades, I have not seen my foot in a single high place. My life instead has often been one humiliation after another. Yet I still seek that high place. If it does not happen in this life, I believe I will find it in the next. Let the twelve have their thrones. God has prepared a place for me as well. A high place--where my feet and my heart will abound. Where no longer will I feel on the outside looking in; where no longer will I have to prove myself--to myself, to others, or even to God. Where at last the struggle will cease.

In the course of my lifetime with Juliana, she would often hold my head to her breast, look into my eyes, smile, and shivers of love would assault my soul. This soft place, I thought, is "high enough."