L.B. Graham — author of the series "The Binding Of The Blade"

Some of you have been following the little 'progress' bar on the side of my blog, and have noted that the rate of its movement has increased. That's certainly true. I don't know how universal this may be - I suspect it is pretty common - but the end of a book often comes faster for me than the beginning.

It's kind of like when you're reading a book. You read along, gradually getting pulled into the story, and if the book successfully pulls you in, by the time you near the climax, you find it harder and harder to put down. I feel that way sometimes when I write. There comes a point when I feel the momentum within the story grab a hold of me, and then I find I move along at a quicker and quicker pace.

To explain the percentage in that progress bar on the side of the page, I'll say that my 'guesstimate' all along has been that this novel, at least in draft form, would run about 400 of my pages, or about 140,000 words. So, I've been using my page count to keep track of progress, adding a percentage point for every 4 of my pages that I write. At this point, I have 304, or about 76% in my method.

I'm actually further along in terms of word count, which is currently about 109K. Interestingly, as I move toward and through the climactic events in the book, my chapters are getting shorter - part of creating that faster pace I mentioned above. Things are happening rapidly, and slightly shorter chapters is one way to reinforce this and help the reader feel it. Since I have 10 chapters left in my outline, I suspect I might fall short of my 400 page estimate, and yet still end up at or above my word count estimate. I guess we'll see.

2 Quick Follow-Up Notes...

(1) The four previous posts with the term "Peter's Story" in the titles should be read in order, from "Peter's Story - Maundy Thursday" forward to "Peter's Story - Easter." You'd figure it out eventually, but I thought I'd save you some grief if you're interested but you've come to them in the middle or after the fact.

(2) I wanted to leave this reflection on the events of Holy Week with a quote from Dr. Robert Yarbrough's commentary on the Gospel of John. Dr. Yarbrough was my teacher in College and Seminary and is that rare combination of an excellent scholar and a good writer. This quote comes from the end of his exposition of John 18 and looks forward to the crucifixion account in John 19. Here it goes:

"The situation was deteriorating rapidly. But it would grow still worse. It reached its nadir in the next chapter, as Pilate gave in to the manipulation of the Jewish authorities, and as Jesus trudged silently out of the city, His own cross in hand, to lay hold of a glory hidden from all eyes but His own."

And so He did.

He’s alive. As crazy as it sounds, it’s true. I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but I’ve seen the tomb with my own eyes. More than that, though, I’ve seen Him.

It started this morning when the women came hurrying back to us, full of crazy babblings about the stone being rolled away and the tomb being empty. They said they’d seen angels, and we thought that perhaps the strain of the past few days had been too much for them. But, John grew excited and said he was going to go see, so I went too, afraid of what I’d find. Afraid the tomb would be intact and the body there. Afraid that it wouldn’t be, and that perhaps angels might appear to us as to them, appear to tell me what I already knew, that I had no business with Him anymore, for I had disowned Him.

We ran, but I couldn’t keep up with John. My fear perhaps heavy enough that it held me back, just a little. But when we got there and found the stone indeed rolled aside, John hesitated at the entrance, staring at the empty space. I did not hesitate, hope rising despite my fear, and I pushed on inside. The linen was there, but Jesus wasn’t. The tomb was truly empty, just as the women had said.

We went back to the others, full of wonder, but unsure of what all this meant. No angels appeared to us, and I kept to myself on the way back, knowing why – or so I thought. I had disgraced myself, and rather than being rebuked by the angels that had spoken to the women as I had feared I would be, I was apparently to be ignored completely.

But, marvel of marvels, my fears and my doubts turned out to be completely unfounded. That night, Jesus appeared to us all, except Thomas, who was away. He appeared in our midst, and He spoke peace unto us and greeted us warmly, showing us His wounds so we would not doubt but believe. When it came to me, He didn’t hesitate or falter, but He greeted me as He did the others. I could see in His eyes the same love as before.

I should have known He wouldn’t forsake me, and this doubt rebukes me almost as much as my threefold denial does. I should have known that His love would not waver, that His grace was greater than my shame, His mercy greater than my sin. I know now, and I will not forget. I will spend my days making sure no one else does either. I will tell His story as clearly as I can, as often as I can, for He was dead, but now He’s alive.

And me? I was lost, but now I’m found, and in the end, that’s all that really matters.

I didn't think I would sleep last night, but I did. It was a troubled sleep, restless and full of bad dreams. Waking was worse, though, as no bad dream could be as bad as the darkness to which I opened my eyes.

We are resting today, in keeping with the commandment, but I don't know what we'd be doing even if we weren't. He has given meaning to my days and purpose to my steps, even when I've been in the boat or doing other things, for years now. What will fill that void? What will become of us who were called together by the power of His words and have been held together by a common bond of love, now that He is gone? Can we survive? Are we doomed to unravel and separate, piece by piece, person by person?

As the day wore on, I gathered that several of the women were getting things together to go take care of the body in the morning. It was too close to sundown and the start of the Sabbath when he died to take care of things adequately then. I don't know how they can do it, though. I don't think I could see Him again. It was hard enough watching His limp body sagging on the cross. To see Him again would just freshen the wound. Better them than me.

We don't talk to each other. John tries, sometimes, but most of the rest of us aren't in the mood. I'm the worst of all, I suppose, but then again, I'm the one that denied Him. I want to go back. I want to have another chance. I've been begging God all day to give me another chance. I would take my stand and acknowledge Him, I would.

But I can't go back, and that denial will haunt me forever.

They crucified Him between two common criminals. It shouldn't have been like that. I should have been with Him. When they accused me of being one of His disciples, I should have stepped forward and said, "That's right, I'm a follower of Jesus." I might have ended up hanging right beside Him, but at least I wouldn't have scorned Him and all He'd ever done for me, at least He wouldn't have had to face that dreadful day alone.

It was dreadful. The trial was a joke and the beatings merciless. The crowd had been whipped into a frenzy, calling for His death. They welcomed Him like a king just five days ago, and yet how they called for His crucifixion. Well, they got what they wanted, because the Roman stooge, Pilate, gave it to them. He sent Jesus off to be crucified and went on about his day.

At least, if there's a mercy in this somewhere, it might be that Jesus didn't last that long on the cross. Only about three hours. You hear about people lingering on and on, hour after hour, in agony, but He only lasted three hours. Only. I can't even begin to imagine what three hours up there would be like. What was strange, though, was how dark it got. I couldn't help thinking as He was hanging there, about how He'd said, "I am the light of the world."

Then He died. It's all gone, I thought, Light has left the world. All is darkness now.

When they'd dragged the body away, we dragged ourselves back here. What we're doing here, though, who knows? It's all over. There's no "us," whatever "us" is, without Him. We have lost Him, and in losing Him, we have lost everything.

What is to become of us now?

It was strange, the Teachers's instructions. Go into the town, find the man carrying the jar, ask him about a room for the Passover. But, we have learned over the years that Jesus doesn't always like to tell us everything, so we went and did what he asked.

The Passover was strange too. Jesus spoke of His body broken and His blood poured out, all for us. His persistent references to a coming time of suffering are intensifying. He even spoke of His being betrayed, if you could imagine it, by one of us.

There was more, of course, but after he suggested that I would deny him, three times no less, it was hard for me to concentrate on the rest. That He would doubt me after all I've left behind for Him really hurt. I tried to reassure Him that I would be faithful, but His words hung in the air, in my mind and heart, and they hang even heavier now, for I have done exactly what He said I would do.

Three times I stood at a crossroads - acknowledge my Lord and my Savior, or protect myself from guilt by association. Three times I rejected Him, until I was so adamant I didn't know Him that they left me alone.

When the rooster crowed, I could have died right there. I will never hear that sound again without pain. I have failed him, utterly.

And worse, He is in their custody, and I fear that this time, there will be no escape for Him. What are we to do?