Breakfast on the beach - John 21

 They fished all night and caught nothing.

The nets hit the water again and again—muscle memory, not hope.

The Sea of Tiberias, once a source of livelihood, had become a mirror of futility. Seven men, seasoned fishermen, all in the same boat, literally and spiritually.

Peter had broken the silence with a sentence that sounded more like surrender than initiative: “I’m going fishing.” And they followed—not because they expected a catch, but because doing something, even if fruitless, hurt less than doing nothing.

Dark water. Empty nets. Fatigue settling into their joints. It wasn’t failure that pressed hardest—it was the silence. No direction. No commission. Just waiting.

Then, light.

A voice called from the shore—casual, as if from a neighbor leaning over a fence. “Children, have you caught anything?”

The word stung a bit. Children? But they answered. “No.”

The man spoke again. “Cast the net on the right side of the boat.”

Of course it was foolish. If there were fish to catch, the side of the boat wouldn’t matter. But they did it. Maybe out of exhaustion. Maybe because something in the voice made them obey.

The net jerked. Bent the wood. Groaned with sudden life.

Fish swarmed the mesh like mercy rushing in.

John squinted at the man on shore, and his heart recognized what his eyes couldn’t yet confirm. “It is the Lord.”

Peter didn’t pause. He didn’t plan. He didn’t wait. He threw himself into the sea and waded to shore, soaking, stumbling, frantic.

And when he got there, Jesus already had a fire going.

Charcoal smoke drifted up into the morning air. Bread rested on stones. Fish sizzled, already cooked.

This is Jesus. Risen. Real. On a beach, cooking breakfast for men who had let Him down and drifted back to the life they left behind.

He didn’t meet them with a sermon. He met them with fire and food. He didn’t ask for an apology. He asked for their presence. And He fed them.

Grace wears an apron. Mercy holds a spatula.

They sat around the fire, quiet. No one dared ask who He was. They knew. You don’t need introductions when your heart’s been branded by someone’s presence.

Jesus took the bread and handed it to them. Then the fish.

The same hands that had broken bread for five thousand, that had been pierced by nails, now served again.

He hadn’t come back from the dead to give them a second chance at ministry. He came back to give them Himself.

After the meal, He took a walk with Peter. The same man who had sworn three times, in a courtyard full of shadows, that he didn’t even know Jesus.

Now, the two walked on sand warmed by morning light.

“Simon, son of John, do you love Me more than these?”

Peter, staring at the shoreline, answered carefully. “Yes, Lord. You know that I love You.”

Jesus didn’t flinch. “Feed My lambs.”

Again: “Do you love Me?”

“Yes, Lord. You know I love You.”

“Tend My sheep.”

A third time: “Simon, son of Jonah, do you love me?”

Peter felt the ache sharpen. It wasn’t the repetition that wounded. It was the mirror. Jesus was letting him relive every denial—but in reverse. Three denials. Three chances to say it right.

“Lord,” Peter said, “You know everything. You know that I love You.”

And Jesus gave him back his calling. “Feed My sheep.”

Jesus doesn’t demote. He restores. Full seat. Full calling. Full trust. Just restoration by the One who sees right through us and doesn’t look away.

And note the order: Grace first. Then commission.

Before Jesus asked Peter to shepherd others, He made him sit down and eat. Before He asked for love, He had already built the fire.

It’s Jesus, dragging His glory into ordinary details—a fire, a meal, a walk.

And there’s more. Jesus says, “When you were young, you dressed yourself and went where you wanted. But when you’re old, you’ll stretch out your hands, and another will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go.”

The words landed like prophecy. They were. Peter would be bound and led, crucified for the name he once denied.

But Jesus doesn’t end with death. He ends with the same words He began with, years ago on another shoreline: “Follow Me.”

Peter turns and sees John following. And his old habit kicks in—comparison.

“What about him?”

Jesus answers with quiet thunder: “If I want him to remain until I return, what is that to you? You follow Me.”

The old instinct to measure your calling by someone else’s footsteps dies hard. But Jesus won’t let Peter live a sideways life.

You follow Me.

That’s the call. Still.

Not manage your brand. Not build a platform. Not fix everybody else. Just—follow.

John, the beloved, the writer, ends his Gospel like this:

“There are many other things that Jesus did. If every one of them were written down, I suppose the world itself could not contain the books.”

But this moment—this breakfast on the beach—was chosen. Because God wants you to see a Savior who doesn’t just forgive your past but cooks for you afterward. Who doesn’t just call you back, but walks with you there.

He doesn’t wait with a clipboard. He waits with bread.

And He’s still saying, to every failure willing to swim back to shore:

“Follow Me.”

- Aul Dazet