Green Beans

Green beans. That was what the argument was about.

The options were green peas or green beans. She had already confirmed the reception menu items of meat, bread and dessert. We had reviewed the dress, talked about the flowers, fretted over the length of her veil and the song to be played while she walked down the aisle. The only thing left to decide was the green beans. I was sure they would be preferable to peas, and she passionately disagreed. Our conversation had escalated to loud voices, and it appeared the debate had ended when Dad poked his head in the room and told us to be quiet. But we didn’t – we just inched closer in bed together and whispered. After all, this had to be decided tonight. She was already ten years old, and I was seven. We didn’t have that much time left.

So many boys would probably want to marry us. Giggle.

But we would only pick the perfect ones. Serious.

I would be her maid of honor, and she would be mine. Smile.

None of it happened like we planned. I want to get over it, but I feel like I’m letting down those girls. They only believed the best would happen to them. They were manipulative and loving, mean and loyal. They slept in the same bed when they had their own rooms. They stole each other's clothes and fixed each other's hair. They hated that the other one always had the most romantic boy story to tell, and they secretly thought their sister was the prettiest girl in the world.

It was her wedding day. Late that night, I sat on the floor, leaned against the wall and cried. Thousands of miles away.

I am so sorry, little girls.

Closure

Do you love me?

Are you sure that you love me?

Do you?

Closure is a beautiful thing.

It makes me feel less guilty, when I finally ask forgiveness. Sometimes it makes me feel happy, because I clarify how I really felt all along. Other times it leaves me with a strange bittersweet twinge of regret, because time has vanished like sand through my fingers, impossible to retain. Although I wish I had done it differently, something inside urges me towards gratefulness, wrenching me away from condemnation. Could it all be for good?

Peter spent years of his life devoted to Jesus, making sacrifices, appearing ignorant, pushing forward. He was rash in his decisions and fervent in his devotion. He promised he would follow Jesus to the end, and I think in the deepest place of his heart, he believed he would.

But when the chains were shackled and the beatings began, Peter buckled under the questions. Of course he was not with this man. He had never been with him. Everything Jesus was experiencing—humiliation by the spiritual leaders, degradation by the mobs. This was not the promising kingdom of light and power that Jesus had spoken of! Maybe he had been wrong the whole time.

Across the courtyard, Jesus looked at Peter. Uncovered, bare and naked before the piercing glance of the Son of God, Peter knew. The depth of his betrayal was sinking in, and ashamed tears of self-hatred and bitterness fell like rain.

Three days later, Peter rushed into the sacred tomb of his fallen leader. Respect for the dead or reverence for the departed—no such thing entered his mind. He found the clothes lying there. Understanding of “I will rise again” started forming in his heart.

(I am going to insert myself here. It is a story, after all.)

Then Peter wondered. Will Jesus have anything to do with me? Will he even recognize my existence? If there was some way that I could get an audience with him, where I can talk and he can just listen… where I tell him over and over how I regret what I did. How I buckled under the pressure and all I need is one more chance to prove my extreme devotion to his cause. How I loathe the essence of my being. How I cringe at the memory of my words.

Early one morning, there Jesus was, on the shore. They were almost about to dock the boat anyway, but Peter jumped over the side, into the water, and started swimming. His desperateness obvious, his eagerness apparent. This was his chance.

And Jesus made them breakfast. Of all the spiritually-enriching, wisdom-imparting activities that could have taken place at this moment in history, one of the last times Jesus would ever walk the earth in human form—he made them breakfast.

Friends, eat with me. I know you are hungry. And so very fragile and weak. But fisherman, you are the foundation of my church that will last through generations, seeping into every fragment of human existence, preaching my life, loving my lost, beaming my light.

Peter sat and his heart bled inside. Should he start now? Was this the right time to begin his apology speech, carefully crafted and tastefully planned?

“Do you love me?”

Jesus asked and Peter affirmed, again and again.

I like to think that the third time, Peter took a step closer to Christ, contesting emotions surging through his being. Anger over the idea that Jesus so thoroughly doubted his devotion, pain since he had given Jesus reason to do so, and desperation that Jesus be convinced of his resolve.

And then it happened. Jesus said that not only would Peter be the rock of his church, but he would be crucified for his beliefs. Somehow, the man who denied Jesus in the courtyard because of possible implications arose as a leader who walked towards the same type of horrendous death Jesus experienced.

Complete reconciliation. Closure that marked the beginning.

You betrayed him, and then nails punctured your flesh because of the depth of your love for him. You feigned that you were unacquainted with him, and then the influence you had on others for him was a relentless torrent that could not be stopped.

Yes, it was all for good.