Longfellow
Well-Known Member
Miriam:
I remember the first evening I heard him speak. The sun had just dipped behind the hills, and the air smelled of bread and lake water. I had come to Capernaum to sell linen, but stayed to hear the man that some called "teacher.”
He was sitting in Peter’s courtyard, surrounded by fishermen, children, and a few elders who leaned in close. He didn’t shout. He didn’t command. He told a story about a farmer scattering seed—some fell on rocks, some among thorns, some on good soil. I didn’t understand it all, but I felt something settle in me, like the seed had found its place.
That night, Peter’s wife passed around bowls of lentils and flatbread. No one asked who was poor or who was clean. We ate together. The teacher broke a piece of bread and handed it to a boy with a limp. “This is how the kingdom begins,” he said. “One loaf, many hands.”
I stayed in Capernaum after that. I helped cook, sweep, and care for the sick who came to Peter’s door. The teacher never turned anyone away. He healed with words, with touch, with silence. And he taught us to do the same.
We didn’t call ourselves disciples then. We were just people who had been changed. We shared what we had. We forgave debts. We listened more than we spoke. And every evening, we gathered to hear another story—about a lost coin, a hidden treasure, a father who ran to embrace his son.
Some say the kingdom is far off. But I saw it begin in Peter’s courtyard, with bread and stories and the teacher’s quiet voice.
I remember the first evening I heard him speak. The sun had just dipped behind the hills, and the air smelled of bread and lake water. I had come to Capernaum to sell linen, but stayed to hear the man that some called "teacher.”
He was sitting in Peter’s courtyard, surrounded by fishermen, children, and a few elders who leaned in close. He didn’t shout. He didn’t command. He told a story about a farmer scattering seed—some fell on rocks, some among thorns, some on good soil. I didn’t understand it all, but I felt something settle in me, like the seed had found its place.
That night, Peter’s wife passed around bowls of lentils and flatbread. No one asked who was poor or who was clean. We ate together. The teacher broke a piece of bread and handed it to a boy with a limp. “This is how the kingdom begins,” he said. “One loaf, many hands.”
I stayed in Capernaum after that. I helped cook, sweep, and care for the sick who came to Peter’s door. The teacher never turned anyone away. He healed with words, with touch, with silence. And he taught us to do the same.
We didn’t call ourselves disciples then. We were just people who had been changed. We shared what we had. We forgave debts. We listened more than we spoke. And every evening, we gathered to hear another story—about a lost coin, a hidden treasure, a father who ran to embrace his son.
Some say the kingdom is far off. But I saw it begin in Peter’s courtyard, with bread and stories and the teacher’s quiet voice.
