Everyone thinks I ran away. Which I did. I have to admit that. But I didn’t leave. Where could I go? My whole life is right there on that hill. The One I still believe is the Messiah is dying right there. And I should be with Him. Either dying next to Him or at least standing with John and Mary and His mom. But no, I’m over here in the trees on the next hill. Watching from a distance. So ashamed that I denied Him, that I fled in the face of danger. I couldn’t show my face there. I couldn’t bear to see the look of disappointment on His face. That look would haunt me for the rest of my life. But then, I guess it will anyway. Still, I can’t go. Where else should I be? What does all this mean? What does it mean for me?
Who am I? The brave and bold disciple, or the one who denies even knowing Him? Am I the one who walked on water or the one who ran when He needed me most? It’s so hard to remember any note of goodness in the midst of my resounding failure. I always thought I would be the hero. I would be the one who stayed. When everyone else fled, I would be by His side. But I’m not. I’m here skulking in the shadows. I guess at the end of the day, I’m truly both: the angel and the devil. The good and the bad. The flesh and the spirit. But it doesn’t feel that way. I just feel the bad. But I was my best when I was with Him. And now He’s gone.