Slowly, they made their way through the press of bodies to a small, unoccupied room in Peter's house. No one had followed them or had taken particular notice of their exit. Peter hurried to a casement that opened onto a piece of earth that, amazingly, the crowd had left pristine. Placing his hands on the sill, he hoisted his frame through it and looked around. No one had seen him.

"What on earth are you about, Simon?" For the first time in memory, Jesus was uncertain, perplexed at the behavior of this strange, impulsive disciple. Jesus couldn't help but recall the Jerusalem Temple adventure he had had with his childhood friend, Eben. He remembered the thrill of it. He felt twinges of it now.

"Allow me this once, Jesus. Come on, let us escape this madhouse!" With that Peter turned toward deliverance.

Jesus glanced back in the direction of the crowds and thought momentarily of their needs and realized how depleted he felt. He could not resist Peter's smile and the prospect of mischievous adventure any longer. He followed the fisherman through the window, piecemeal memories of the time he descended into the sewers of Jerusalem flitting through his brain. Another time. Same excitement. The dog, Abishag, bounded through the window in happy anticipation. In another moment of furtive steps, they were out of sight of Peter's home, leaving the crowd behind. They walked briskly, shoulders back, smiles on their faces.

"Now what, Simon? Where do you want to go? What do you want to do?"

In the distance, Peter pointed to a tree. "See that oak yonder?" said he.

"Yes."

"I'll race you!"

"What? You? Race? On foot?" Jesus laughed. "You're an old man. You'll croak before we run five paces."

"All right, boy. I'll give you a head start." Slapping Jesus on the butt, he cried, "Now off with you!"

Jesus took off. He was not about to let this old codger best him. But it seemed like mere seconds before Peter was running abreast with him. The old fisherman laughed and poured himself into the task of outrunning Jesus. He pulled ahead. Jesus redoubled his efforts--to no avail. Peter was leaving him huffing behind. When Jesus finally arrived at the tree, Peter had already circumvented it and was leaning with both hands on his thighs, breathing heavily. "Old man!? I guess we know now who is the old man!"

Jesus, panting and holding his sides with laughter, sat down and leaned against the tree. "I can't remember when I last ran like that," he wheezed. In the distance lay the lake or, as most call it, the sea of Galilee. From under the oak tree, the water appeared as if painted with an artist's azure brush. Birds whistled in the trees. Leaves fluttered in the breeze. White cumulus billowed into the blue and the siren of the wavelets beckoned.

In a few moments, Jesus and Peter found themselves walking along the edges of the water. Jesus removed his sandals and waded into the lapping shoreline. Peter followed, removing his footwear as well. "Praise God!" he cried for the sheer joy of it. "I think I'll take a swim." Off came his tunic as he waded into the water. In a moment he was over his head, swimming powerful strokes toward the center of the lake. Jesus observed him from the shore, wondering at the silliness of all of this. Two grown men stealing away from responsibility like adolescents. He laughed out loud to himself and off came his robe as well. He could not swim as well as Peter, but he managed to join the fisherman in the deep water. Treading water, Jesus drew back his hand and forcibly brought it forward, slapped the surface, sending water cascading into Peter's face.

Shaking his head and rubbing his eyes, the fisherman growled and came for Jesus. Grabbing the Son of God by his head with both hands, he pushed down with all his might. Jesus sank like a stone. When at last his head broke the surface, it was he who was sputtering and spitting. The Creator of the universe had a surprise for the fisherman. In his hand he held by its tail, a slippery, scaly denizen trying with all its might to free itself from Jesus' grip. Jesus, however, took a swing at Peter with the fish, missing his nose by a whisker. "Take that, you old relic," screamed Jesus with abandon. No sooner had the blow missed than Peter once again came for Jesus. He tried to dodge, but unlike the fish which went flying from his grasp as he swung, he could not escape Peter's big, gnarled and powerful hands from grasping his head, and again Jesus plunged into the depths of Gennesaret.

Frolicking ended, the two men lay back on the grass next to the water. "And, how often do you do this, Peter?" Jesus asked as they wrapped themselves in their clothing.

"Not often," was the reply. "Maybe every thirty years or so . . . starting now."

More laughter. They lay on their backs studying the passing clouds . . . talking, being quiet. Once breathing had returned to normal, Jesus stood and idly began to skip stones across the surface. Peter watched. "I've lost count of the stones I have skipped when I was young," he offered. Abishag danced crazily, engrossed with her Master's throwing. Excited eyes watched the path of each stone as it sailed across the surface bouncing and skipping. At length, she could stand it no longer and sailed into the waves, chasing the elusive stones. Once about fifty feet from the shore, she became puzzled at the disappearance of the stones. Jesus threw another. It came bouncing out toward her and disappeared a few feet from her nose. Undaunted, Abishag disappeared also, the waves closing over her head. Jesus became alarmed. Peter sat up. The surface of the water was undisturbed by a swimming canine. Then suddenly, her head broke the surface, and in her mouth was a stone. She immediately paddled back to Jesus, dropping the stone at his feet panting happily, looking up at him in anticipation of yet another foray into the deep.

At length, their interlude of horseplay came to an end and they began to make their way back to the chaos of humanity they had left behind. Amazingly, when Jesus and Peter entered the room, it was apparent that they were not even missed. Everything was the same . . . everything, of course, except Jesus and Peter!

Only scraps of food were left at table and, accordingly, there were vacant spaces and places to sit. Turning to his wife Peter asked, "Is there any food left in our house, Joanna?" Smiling, in a moment she returned with fresh bread, grapes, figs, goat cheese and wine.

As they ate, Peter turned his gaze to those gathering in the room. "So many women," he mused. There was Mary, called Magdalene. Jesus had delivered her from no less than seven demons. Joanna, the wife of Cuza, who managed Herod's palace. And then, Susanna. There were others, so many of them. "A good thing," thought Peter. "Without their help, none of us would be here." These women believed in Jesus. Not in just who he was but in what he was doing. They believed in it so much that they consistently gave of their financial substance to support the work. "Where do they get the money? Do their husbands know about it?" He let the thought hang in his head for a moment as he mused. "Well, that is none of my concern," he thought, "I suppose it is out of gratitude; he has healed just about all of them of something."

He felt a hand on his shoulder. "So, my friend, what do you make of all these people? I must admit, I am more than a bit weary of it." It was James, the Lord's brother.

"I was just thinking that there are so many women."

"Yes, very loyal," said James. "What would we do without them?"

"Likely not much, considering the demands on our purse," replied the fisherman.

"You are concerned about our purse? Don't trouble yourself. My brother seems adequate to the task of keeping it brimming with denarii. Besides, let Judas worry about it. It's his job."

"That is what troubles me . . ." Peter did not say these words. He thought them.