The Unwritten Words
The evening breeze carried the scent of salt and fish across the shore of the Sea of Galilee. Three men sat around a small fire, its flames casting dancing shadows on their weathered faces. John, the youngest of the three, gazed into the flames with a contemplative expression. Peter, ever restless, was arranging small stones in patterns on the sand, while James leaned against a weather-worn fishing boat pulled up on the beach.
The silence between them was comfortable, born of years of friendship and shared experiences that had transformed them from simple fishermen into witnesses of the extraordinary. But tonight, something weighed heavily on John’s mind.
“Brothers,” John finally spoke, his voice soft but carrying clearly in the evening stillness. “As I write these accounts of our time with the Master, I find myself troubled.”
Peter looked up from his stone patterns, his rough hands stilling. “Troubled? Why, brother? Your words have been true and clear.”
John picked up a small piece of driftwood and turned it over in his hands. “It’s not what I’ve written that troubles me, but what I cannot write. There’s so much… so very much that remains untold.”
James shifted his position, leaning forward with interest. “Tell us what’s on your heart, John.”
“Today, as I was writing, I found myself overwhelmed by the magnitude of what we witnessed,” John continued. “Every day with Him was filled with teachings, with moments that changed lives. Do you remember the morning He healed the blind man near Bethsaida?”
Peter nodded vigorously. “How could I forget? The way the man’s eyes cleared like clouds parting before the sun…”
“And yet,” John interrupted gently, “that healing is not in my account. Nor is the conversation we had afterward about faith and sight. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of such moments.”
James stroked his beard thoughtfully. “You cannot possibly record everything, brother. The scrolls would fill a library.”
“That’s precisely what burdens me,” John replied, tossing the piece of driftwood into the fire. “I’ve been thinking of adding one final verse to my account. Something to acknowledge all that remains unwritten.”
Peter leaned forward, his interest piqued. “What words would you use?”
John closed his eyes, as if seeing the words before him. “I’ve been thinking of writing: ‘And there are also many other things which Jesus did, which if they were written one by one, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that would be written.’”
A profound silence fell over the group. The fire crackled, sending sparks upward into the darkening sky.
“Those words…” Peter began, his voice unusually soft, “they carry both joy and sorrow, don’t they? Joy in remembering how much He did, how many lives He touched. But sorrow in knowing we cannot capture it all.”
James nodded slowly. “I remember the day He taught beside the well in Samaria. The way the children gathered around Him, how He took time to answer each of their questions. The wisdom He shared that day alone could fill volumes.”
“And the private moments,” Peter added, his voice growing animated. “The conversations we had while walking between villages, the quiet teachings when the crowds had gone. The way He would explain His parables to us in detail, helping us understand their deeper meanings.”
John picked up a handful of sand and let it slip through his fingers. “Sometimes I wake in the night, remembering something new. Yesterday, I recalled how He once stopped to help an old woman gather her spilled figs in the marketplace. Such a small moment, yet it showed His heart so clearly.”
“Tell us more about that,” James urged, settling more comfortably against the boat.
John’s eyes took on a distant look. “It was during the festival season in Jerusalem. The marketplace was crowded, everyone rushing about their business. This elderly woman – she must have been at least seventy – was trying to sell her figs. Someone bumped into her basket, and her entire day’s goods spilled across the dusty ground.”
Peter and James leaned in, drawn into the memory.
“Most people just walked around her, some even stepping on the figs,” John continued. “But Jesus… He immediately went to help her. He knelt in the dust, gathering each fig carefully, cleaning them with the hem of His robe. The woman was crying, saying they were ruined, that her family would go hungry. Do you remember what He did next?”
Peter shook his head. “I don’t think I was there for this.”
“He blessed the figs,” John said, his voice filled with wonder. “When He handed the basket back to her, the figs were not only clean but fresher than when they’d been picked. They looked like they’d just come from the tree. The woman’s tears of despair turned to joy, and she sold every single one for a good price.”
James rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. “How many such moments happened that we never saw? Even when we were with Him, He would often go off alone to pray, or stop to speak with people while we went ahead to make preparations.”
“That’s why I feel this final verse is necessary,” John explained. “Future generations need to understand that what we’ve recorded, as precious as it is, is just a fraction of the whole. It’s like trying to capture the sea in a single jar.”
Peter stood up and walked a few paces, looking out over the darkening waters. “I remember when He called me to follow Him, right here on this shore. The words He spoke to me that day… they changed everything. But it wasn’t just the words – it was His eyes, the tone of His voice, the way He looked at me as if He could see every part of who I was and who I could become.”
“How do we write that?” James asked softly. “How do we capture the way He looked at people? The way His presence could fill a room with peace or bring conviction to a hardened heart?”
John picked up another piece of driftwood and began drawing in the sand. “We can’t. That’s why I want to acknowledge it. These accounts we’re writing – they’re true, they’re accurate, but they’re like looking at the sun’s reflection in a still pool. The reality was so much more.”
“Tell us about another moment,” Peter requested, returning to his place by the fire. “One that you haven’t written in your account.”
John thought for a moment. “Do you remember the wedding at Cana? I wrote about the miracle of the wine, of course, but there was so much more that happened that day. After the miracle, He spent time with the servant who had drawn the water. The man had questions about God, about faith, about his place in the world. Jesus sat with him for nearly an hour, teaching him with such patience and wisdom.”
“I remember that servant,” James interjected. “He came to hear Jesus teach many times after that. His whole family eventually became followers.”
“Exactly,” John said. “Each miracle, each teaching, each moment rippled outward in ways we couldn’t fully track. Lives were changed not just by the big moments we’ve recorded, but by countless small encounters, brief conversations, acts of kindness.”
Peter picked up one of his stones and examined it in the firelight. “Sometimes I think about all the people who encountered Him briefly – the merchants He bought bread from, the children who passed Him on the street, the travelers who heard just a sentence or two of His teaching before moving on. Even those minimal encounters often left people changed.”
“There was that time in Capernaum,” James remembered, “when He helped that young boy find his lost sheep. We were hurrying to reach the synagogue before sunset, but He stopped everything to help search. I can still hear the joy in that child’s voice when they found the sheep caught in the thorns.”
John nodded. “And how He took the time to show the boy how to care for the sheep’s wounds, teaching him about responsibility and compassion. It couldn’t have taken more than half an hour, but I’m sure that boy never forgot it.”
“The more we talk,” Peter observed, “the more memories surface. It’s like trying to count the stars – just when you think you’ve accounted for them all, you notice another cluster you hadn’t seen before.”
John traced his finger through the sand, forming letters of the verse he was considering. “That’s why I want to end my account with this acknowledgment. It feels important to let readers know that as amazing as the things we’ve recorded are, they’re just a small selection from an ocean of wonderful works and teachings.”
James stood up and walked over to read what John had written in the sand. “It’s perfect, brother. It captures both the vastness of what Jesus did and the humility we feel in trying to record it.”
“But it also raises a question,” Peter said, his brow furrowed in thought. “How do we choose what to include and what to leave out? Sometimes I lie awake at night, wondering if we’ve selected the right stories, the right teachings.”
John looked up at his friends, his eyes reflecting the firelight. “I believe the Spirit guides us in this. We’re not just writing historical accounts – we’re sharing the good news that will bring life to others. The stories we’ve chosen to record are like seeds that will grow in the hearts of those who read them.”
“Still,” James mused, “I sometimes wish we could somehow preserve every moment, every word. Future generations will never know the sound of His laughter, the way His voice could calm a storm in a person’s heart just as easily as He calmed the sea.”
“That’s why your verse is so important, John,” Peter said firmly. “It reminds readers that there’s always more to discover about Him. It keeps us humble, knowing that even those of us who walked with Him couldn’t contain all His works in our writings.”
John stood up and walked to the water’s edge, letting the gentle waves lap at his feet. “Do you remember how He would often use everyday things to teach us? The birds of the air, the flowers of the field, the activities of fishermen and farmers and merchants?”
“Yes,” James replied, joining him by the water. “Every day brought new lessons, new insights. He could turn any situation into a teaching moment.”
“And each person who heard those teachings probably remembered different aspects, different details that spoke specifically to their hearts,” Peter added. “Even among us who were there, we each noticed and remembered different things.”
John turned back to face his friends. “That’s another reason for this verse. It acknowledges that even what we’ve written is filtered through our own experiences, our own understanding. There’s always more to learn, more to understand.”
“It’s like that time He explained the parable of the sower to us,” James recalled. “Each time He revisited it, He revealed new layers of meaning. Even now, years later, I’m still understanding new aspects of what He taught us.”
“Exactly,” John agreed. “These accounts we’re writing aren’t meant to be the final word, but rather an invitation to know Him personally. They’re like doorways through which others can enter into their own relationship with Him.”
Peter walked over to join them at the water’s edge. “When you write this final verse, John, you’re not just acknowledging what we couldn’t record – you’re also pointing to the living nature of His teaching. The story didn’t end when He ascended to heaven.”
“No, it didn’t,” John said softly. “Every day, new chapters are being written in the lives of those who follow Him. Our written accounts are like lamplights, helping others find their way to Him, but the real story continues in each heart that receives Him.”
The three men stood in silence for a moment, watching the last rays of sun disappear behind the distant hills. The first stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky.
“Write it, John,” James said finally. “Write it as a testimony to His greatness and our limitations. Write it as an invitation for others to seek Him beyond the written word.”
“And write it,” Peter added, “as a reminder that no matter how much we study, how much we learn, there’s always more to discover about Him.”
John nodded, his decision made. Tomorrow, he would add these words to his account, not as an apology for what was left unwritten, but as a celebration of the inexhaustible richness of Jesus’ life and ministry.
As the night deepened, the three friends remained by the sea, sharing more memories, each story triggering another, each recollection revealing new facets of their time with Jesus. Their conversation continued long into the night, a living demonstration of the truth John would soon write – that the world itself could not contain all the books that could be written about what Jesus did.