It was a few days after Easter. The man was feeling a bit lost.

Easter Sunday? It was as if God was actually in the room.

The man had been unsure about showing up. He struggled with being a Christ-follower. Sometimes it was really easy. He felt like God was right there with him. Other times, no matter what he said, it wasn’t right. Sometimes it felt like God was yelling at him.

It came to a head right before Easter. He’d been doing fine, feeling all spiritual. Then, right after the Maundy Thursday service, right after he was sure that he had faith figured out, right after the most amazing communion, everything fell apart.

He fell asleep when he was supposed to be praying. He went to check on a friend at the courthouse and then was afraid that he’d be arrested, too. “Hell no,” he said, when asked if he knew the guy, then was wrecked at his own weakness.

The next morning was worse. It was one of those catastrophic days when, though you are alive, your world dies. He had started to build an identify, a future, a dream. Then, like hammer blows, it collapsed.

“Why believe?” he thought.

Sunday morning, there was a glimpse of hope. Some things that had seemed over looked like they had new life. It might not be as bad as he feared. He took a walk.

Sunday night he was together with some friends. They were all trying to figure out what God was doing. They figured that they were the ones who, if anyone should, could explain what following Jesus might look like and they were stuck. Then Jesus showed up. After they thought he was dead.

So things weren’t over. But the man, Peter, still had some questions.

(to be continued)