If I could just have breakfast with Jesus. It would be on a beach, and though I picture Hilton Head Island in place of Lake Tiberias, I think it still would be holy. And it would be overcast, and we would sit on the hardened sand and on a charcoal grill he would cook the food and then he would look at me and say,
"Come and join me for breakfast."
And I would oblige. Of course I would. I cry just thinking about it.
Perhaps we would have fish like he did with his disciples when they ate their breakfast on a beach so long ago, or perhaps I'd bring him hot coffee and vanilla cream and we would share a thermos together.
But it doesn't matter what we'd eat or drink, because I'd be with him.
And I try to imagine the kindness in his eyes that I'll see as I sit across from him, but I know they'll hold a kindness in which I cannot understand. And I'll want to take his hand, and I briefly wonder: will they still hold the scars of the world? Will he hold me and allow my fears to wash away like the tide that kisses the shoreline?
I wonder if he'll ask me three times if I love him. I'd say yes. I'd say yes. I'd say yes.
And I wonder if I'd ask him the question that presses in on my heart.
How can I love you deeper?
And I wonder if he'd answer me or simply smile, and I hope I'd thank him for saving me and setting me free. I hope I'd fall down on my knees in front of him and tell him he is still good, when sometimes life isn't.
Or perhaps, I wouldn't say anything at all. And maybe I'd just listen.
If only I could have breakfast with Jesus.