My name is Nathaniel, one of the twelve disciples. I wasn’t a fisherman like Peter or James—I grew up the son of a tax clerk, more familiar with ledgers than boats. I followed Jesus out of Galilee, hoping for answers. But that night on the sea, when the storm came, I learned something no teaching ever could.
The wind had turned cruel after sunset. I pulled my cloak tighter and squinted toward the shoreline, though the Galilean dark offered no help. We’d pushed off hours ago, after too many baskets of bread and too many strangers pushing in for a glimpse of Him. Jesus had told us to go, said He would dismiss the crowd. But now He was nowhere to be seen, and this sea—this cursed, churning sea—was turning our boat into driftwood.
I wasn’t a fisherman like Peter or James. I was a tax clerk’s son, a wanderer pulled into something bigger than myself, still carrying the dust of my old life in the quiet corners of my heart. Now, each crashing wave felt like it demanded an answer: Why are you here?
Peter shouted something I couldn’t hear over the wind. I saw his arm stretched, pointing to the horizon, his face lit with the kind of fear men don’t speak about. I followed his line of sight—and saw Him.
A figure moving across the water.
“Ghost!” someone cried. We all backed away from the side, hearts pounding like fists against our ribs. My mouth went dry. The sea didn’t carry men. But neither did it swallow Him. He came closer still.
“Take courage,” the voice said, carried oddly clean against the storm. “It is I. Don’t be afraid.”
Peter, mad with hope or madness itself, called back through the gale, “If it’s really You, tell me to come to You!”
I expected rebuke. This was the sea born of chaos, the untamable place deep-rooted in our people’s fears since the Old Testament days. But Jesus simply said, “Come.”
And Peter stepped out. His foot did not sink.
I gripped the mast, breath caught in my throat, as he walked—really walked—toward Jesus. For a moment, the wind didn’t matter. Then it did.
A gust howled, and Peter turned his head. That’s all it took. His focus slipped, and his feet forgot the impossible. He flailed, arms clawing at air and water, and went under with a cry.
“Lord, save me!”
Jesus reached him in a heartbeat.
I’ll never forget that sight—Jesus bending low, hand gripping Peter’s, pulling him from drowning like a father lifting his son from a well.
“You of little faith,” Jesus said, almost gently. “Why did you doubt?”
Peter gasped, eyes wide, drenched and trembling. And Jesus—He didn’t let go.
They climbed into the boat, and the wind stopped. Just like that. The sea hushed, as though it remembered Who walked upon it.
I looked at Jesus then—not with curiosity as I once had, not with reasoning or skepticism. I knelt, head bowed, tears salty on my lips.
Not because He silenced the sea.
Because He had pulled a friend from the deep—and stayed.
That night, I knew this journey wasn’t about what He could calm around me.
It was about Whom I would trust to reach through the storm for me.
My name is Nathaniel, one of the twelve disciples. I wasn’t a fisherman like Peter or James—I grew up the son of a tax clerk, more familiar with ledgers than boats. I followed Jesus out of Galilee, hoping for answers. But that night on the sea, when the storm came, I learned something no teaching ever could.
The wind had turned cruel after sunset. I pulled my cloak tighter and squinted toward the shoreline, though the Galilean dark offered no help. We’d pushed off hours ago, after too many baskets of bread and too many strangers pushing in for a glimpse of Him. Jesus had told us to go, said He would dismiss the crowd. But now He was nowhere to be seen, and this sea—this cursed, churning sea—was turning our boat into driftwood.
I wasn’t a fisherman like Peter or James. I was a tax clerk’s son, a wanderer pulled into something bigger than myself, still carrying the dust of my old life in the quiet corners of my heart. Now, each crashing wave felt like it demanded an answer: Why are you here?
Peter shouted something I couldn’t hear over the wind. I saw his arm stretched, pointing to the horizon, his face lit with the kind of fear men don’t speak about. I followed his line of sight—and saw Him.
A figure moving across the water.
“Ghost!” someone cried. We all backed away from the side, hearts pounding like fists against our ribs. My mouth went dry. The sea didn’t carry men. But neither did it swallow Him. He came closer still.
“Take courage,” the voice said, carried oddly clean against the storm. “It is I. Don’t be afraid.”
Peter, mad with hope or madness itself, called back through the gale, “If it’s really You, tell me to come to You!”
I expected rebuke. This was the sea born of chaos, the untamable place deep-rooted in our people’s fears since the Old Testament days. But Jesus simply said, “Come.”
And Peter stepped out. His foot did not sink.
I gripped the mast, breath caught in my throat, as he walked—really walked—toward Jesus. For a moment, the wind didn’t matter. Then it did.
A gust howled, and Peter turned his head. That’s all it took. His focus slipped, and his feet forgot the impossible. He flailed, arms clawing at air and water, and went under with a cry.
“Lord, save me!”
Jesus reached him in a heartbeat.
I’ll never forget that sight—Jesus bending low, hand gripping Peter’s, pulling him from drowning like a father lifting his son from a well.
“You of little faith,” Jesus said, almost gently. “Why did you doubt?”
Peter gasped, eyes wide, drenched and trembling. And Jesus—He didn’t let go.
They climbed into the boat, and the wind stopped. Just like that. The sea hushed, as though it remembered Who walked upon it.
I looked at Jesus then—not with curiosity as I once had, not with reasoning or skepticism. I knelt, head bowed, tears salty on my lips.
Not because He silenced the sea.
Because He had pulled a friend from the deep—and stayed.
That night, I knew this journey wasn’t about what He could calm around me.
It was about Whom I would trust to reach through the storm for me.
