Mark 6:47 - 48

It was night and overcast. The crowds were dispersed; the disciples had taken their only boat and were somewhere out in the middle of the sea; and Jesus, high up on the mountain, reclined between two boulders, knees to chest. It was moments like these that he savored. "Papa, it's so good to just be with You."

Apart from a soft wind brought in from the east, all was quiet. "I'm exhausted," he said. "And so thankful for what You are about to do." Despite his folded position, he felt like singing. Psalm 116 came to mind and he belted out: "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His Saints." He knew this night was not going to be the night -- not that night -- not for awhile. The words were equal part sobering and comforting as their echo died amongst the rocks.

He turned his attention to the sea. The wind was more forceful now and by the muted light of the moon, he could see the small boat rising on swollen crests. It then disappeared behind troughs. Up for a moment, then down, then again. "Father, keep my friends safe even as I know you already are. Strengthen them."

Was it time to go to them yet? He waited patiently for the answer until: No, not yet.

Another hymn, another prayer, another hour -- then another. It passed slowly. Jesus tucked his hands below his body and braced against the wind. He never took his eyes off the boat, not once.

What started as a nuisance wind had turned dead against the disciples. "We're getting blown off course," Peter said. Master of the obvious, thought Andrew. All 12 men dug oars deep into the water. Even without the constant spray of sea water spouting above the bow, they were drenched completely from sweat. John's eyes clenched against the sting of water and wind as he sputtered: "Best we can do is land at Capernaum at this pace." No one heard or cared, the now gale force wind ripping over the boat.

Peter lost grip on his oar and the wind shot it away like an arrow. He cursed. "We're going to die out here." He strained his eyes rearward to see if there was any sign of Jesus back on the land. Only darkness. He was on dry land somewhere for sure. But they were stuck out here in hell, in the only boat available. At least the little hull was keeping. For now.

Without an oar to keep himself busy, Peter shouted at the top of his lungs at no one in particular, "I've never seen it this bad -- if only the Master was here -- I hate this -- are you sure he said Bethsaida? -- how are we going to help him rule the Kingdom if we're at the bottom of the sea?"

Jesus felt the sudden urge to go to them. This time he felt the Father's approval. He rose from his sitting position, stretched his legs and descended the mountain. It was around four in the morning when his toes touched the shoreline. With barely more than a nodding prayer, he stepped on to the water and began the four mile walk to the center of the sea.

MARK 6:45-46

There's nothing like eating and running. Except this time it was eating and rowing as Jesus abruptly motioned toward the boat. "Cross over to Bethsaida." And with that he disappeared into the crowd.

There was little argument amongst the disciples now, their stomachs full, their heads swimming from what they had just witnessed. Peter was first to the boat. Both hands on the wooden stern as he struggled to raise it from the sand. "All I can say is," as he dug his heels into the damp, "I have never seen anything like that before." As the others joined him, the boat creaked and slid into the water. A few piled in while Peter and John stabilized on opposite sides. With one last heave, both men scrambled aboard and grabbed oars.

Jesus raised his arms. Barely a handful of people even noticed him. Unless a person stood on a rock or sat atop another's shoulders, all you could observe was a sea of humanity. The size of the crowd had not dwindled even one person since the afternoon. And why would anyone leave? Perhaps Jesus would perform another magic trick. Even the late-comers were generously handed leftovers. Groups of men argued about this and that and wild gangs of boys darted between the women and the animals. Jesus closed his eyes and prayed outloud. "Father, I love these people. Please see them home in peace. Please allow your words to penetrate their hearts. I thank you for them and " -- a pack of teenagers, laughing and wrestling, collided into his back. The jolt forced him into an ungraceful sprawl, a knee and an elbow to the dirt. The boys fell as a clump at his heels. One of them, barely 13 and at the bottom of the heap, flashed nervous brown eyes. "Hey, get off me, guys" he said, pushing the others off and scanning Jesus' face for any trace of irritation as if to say, are you mad? Jesus' eyes merely warmed and softened at the edges. No, I'm not mad, Marcus. He didn't hear any sound and Jesus' mouth didn't move. The boy elbowed his way off the ground and just like that, the spell was broken. Before melting into the crowd, his final thought: How did he know my name?

Jesus made his way to the center of the throng, praying silently as he went. If there was anything harder than gathering a crowd it was dispersing one. Still, like a wind over tall grass, wherever Jesus walked, one by one the people stooped to gather their things. An unspoken accord had been reached, somehow everyone knew it was time to leave. The occasional person would approach Jesus, say a few words, but then migrate instinctively back to their departing group.

Jesus watched for over an hour as the last of the crowd shrank into the distance. The sun was setting now and it had been an exhausting yet joy-filled day. There was nothing he wanted more than to share everything with Father. Looking around for the best vantage spot, the mountain rose steep before him. "Okay, Papa. To the top it is."