Epilogue
The orange-morning tide slides up the shore, in swelling breaths of brine that christen swaths of dust and shells with each slow stretch towards land. My fingers twist through knotted cords, searching for normalcy and fish. The contours of this former life curve around me, so familiar. Yet smooth terrain and easy roads seem foreign after Him. Three times in fear I cloaked my zeal in shrouds of shrugged denial. Should I now go forth, proclaim, this Man I claimed a stranger? Unsure, I turn back to my work, pursuing fare to break our night-long fast. Still empty, though, our boat rocks slowly, a question mark upturned upon the waves. My gaze falls on a pilgrim form, a lone wanderer near the water's edge. His feet press halos in the sand as he nears our little craft. He shouts a greeting to our crew, and nods towards flaccid nets. Throw right, he calls, and so I bend to pull the ropes around the stern. A sudden stretch of creaking hemp– then silvered, flapping fins abound. Such swift fullness, my soul flies back to that once-crowded hill, where a meager meal of fish and loaves made baskets overflow. My heart claps out a wild beat of hope as through the salted spray I squint– indeed the hand upraised does bear the crimson sign, the searing mark of Him for whom I wait. An epiphany from my brother's lips, It is the Lord! he cries. I cannot bear this boat, a prison now with its rough boards and oars. I plunge into the gray-green surf and dash through shallow waves to hail this Holy One returned. My garments drip repentant tears as before my Lord I stand, and shrink before His glance. Yet arms of mercy offer an embrace, then guide me calmly up the beach.
—Carla Galdo
Carla Galdo is a graduate of the University of Virginia and is currently working towards an MTS at the John Paul II Institute for Marriage and the Family. She lives in McLean, Virginia with her
husband and son.
