Epiphany

“For there shall come an Abomination, and it shall use my name; yet it will be a horror born of Man and not God.”
 
The Apocrypha
Book of Death 63:1
 
 
The streets were always alive in the Red Delicious, even in the dark of night. Even in the bitter cold. Alive with the covers of fashion magazines, cut and pasted into the real world. They were the latest hairstyles, the current hemlines and trendy lapels, turning the sidewalks into runways for the well to do.
 
It was on the outskirts of this world that Peter roamed, an outcast in a world of beautiful people. He still called the Big Apple ‘Red Delicious.’ It was a name he created for it in his earlier, happier days. ‘Delicious’ because he saw New York dripping with the sweet, succulent juices of hope and promise: a place where, finally, all his dreams would find fruition.
 
But there was more than goodness within the boundaries of Peter’s vision, more than the wholesomeness of sweet cider. At the bottom of the nectar, there was a darkness: a sediment of ripened flesh sucked dry; a cloudy, bitter pulp which settled to the lowest levels. Here, among the dregs, a different world had evolved. A bastardization of Social Darwinism: the antithesis of all that was delicious, the mutation of the dream.
 
It was a world of lost souls, a world of suffering and pain. It was this that made the apple ‘Red.’
 
And it was here that Peter lived. If, indeed, it could be called living. It had been a wondrous place at first, this city. But, for Peter at least, its savor had quickly turned unpalpable.
 
Back when he was still capable of creative thought, when Peter first became a child of the street, he had seen New York as a living thing. A steel and concrete Nosferatu which fed upon the lives within it. The city had sucked all hope from his spirit, leaving only empty flesh. It had drained every drop of his life’s blood, leaving him nothing more than an animated human husk.
 
Peter no longer pondered such thoughts, however. They were beyond his capacity these days and he was incapable of caring. He no longer remembered why he named this city the way he did. Yet New York would always be called the Red Delicious just the same. It was nothing more than habit now, a programmed routine devoid of conscious considerations.
 
He didn’t remember much of anything anymore, not even his last name, not even the use of speech. His memory, like his flesh, had become an complacent victim of the misfortune which had befallen him. A memory made even more tenuous by liberal amounts of cheap distillations and fortified wine. Who needed a last name anyway? Such things didn’t matter to the children of the street. He saw himself as little more than a worm, a parasite bidding his time within the organic machinery of the Red Delicious.
 
As for speech, what was there left to say? And who would listen now?
 
“Mmmph,” he muttered, digging his fingers into the flesh of his sides. The pain was getting worse. Worse every day. When it began a few weeks ago, it was little more than a brief tingling, like sharp needle stings deep within his flesh. Recently, the gentle stings had turned more vicious. Just this morning, Peter had awakened to pain like he had never known before. He coughed until he vomited. He tasted blood, saw the remnants of his stomach floating in a crimson sea.
 
The pain came again. He stumbled in mid-stride.
 
But Peter didn’t let the pain stop him. He kept walking. His collage of clothing whirled about him in constant motion, dancing to the tempo of the winter wind. It was cold. So cold. Peter’s breath burst forth in roiling gouts of steam.
 
He wandered aimlessly among the throng of cutouts that flowed about him. They took no notice of him, this invisible pariah. He was a non-entity in their mist, no more acknowledged than the bits of scrap paper which traveled the streets like urban tumbleweeds. And Peter was good with that. He did not want others to know what he was, what he had become.
 
He held promise once, so much promise. But that world, that alternate reality where his talents were praised by the cheering masses – that place only existed in the nebulous world of alcoholic dreams.
 
Peter was jostled slightly by the beautiful people as he walked. It couldn’t be helped. So many people. Yet he had fallen into the habit, long ago, of staying on the better streets. It was better to contend with the blue men, who did no more than poke you with their lacquer sticks. “Move along. Come on, guy, move along.”
 
That was nothing.
 
It was the shadows that held the terrors, the things that made the apple ‘Red.’ That’s where the dregs were. And they came for you, they always did. Not for money, because there was little of that. Not for possessions: there were none of those. It was the sport. The sheer pleasure of the hunt. That was their attraction. It was the sport of the game. It was the thrill of kicking and cutting the defenseless, the torturing of those who had less than little. Because it made them feel like they were so much better, their lives worth so much more. Who cared if the street people turned up sans pulse?
 
Peter kept his eye on the buildings as he passed, looking for an available nook or cranny. Somewhere to pass the night. He shivered again. It was just so damn cold. He would find some darkened threshold, hide there. Sleep. Sometimes the cutouts dropped some money. Sometimes he would get a gentle kick, just for fun: some cutout playing dreg for his buddies. They would laugh. It wouldn’t hurt. And it was okay.
 
And sometimes one of the blue men would come and ‘move along (poke) move along’ they would say and he would go. They lost interest soon enough, they always did, and he would find another place.
 
In short time, he came across a spot which seemed promising: a darkened, slightly recessed doorway right where the crowd thinned to almost nothing. It was a convenient place, a spot he had seen many time before yet had never used. It was just slightly too close to the beautiful cutouts that should not be bothered, not be forced to witness this ugly side of Red Delicious. Not, after all, when they were out spending their hard earned.
 
The blue men would find him here; there was no doubt. He could not sleep here. But the pain. It was so sharp now; he could go no further. He would rest for a moment, catch his breath. Then he would find a better place, a place he could sleep. Somewhere on the fringe of cutout space.
 
Peter sat, grabbing some discarded newspaper which had made residence in one corner of his nook, still being gently spun about by the whirlwind which had stranded it there. He placed it beneath him, appreciating the meager buffer it provided from the cold concrete.
 
Peter leaned back, letting out a sigh. A sigh no less satisfying than that made by some millionaire easing himself into a steaming Jacuzzi. Looking upward, he saw a well-dressed mannequin posed within the bay window. It startled him for a moment; it was so real. He turned his head: another plastic person resided on the right.
 
He decided he liked this place, liked it very much. It made him feel like he was part of something. They were like a small group of friends, sitting here together, sharing the darkness as if it were an intimate moment.
 
Peter leaned back against the door as another wave of pain shook his body. His head knocked against the gate which was drawn down over the entrance. Its iron rattling startled him. Peter breathed deeply, calmed down. The pain subsided slightly.
 
He glanced toward the heavens and noticed for the first time that the sky shone with the reflected light of the full moon. It added its light to that of the halogen bulbs which lined the avenue, turning the night into a chiaroscuro mosaic, contrasted only by shards of pastel neon and the bold colors of the current winter fashions.
 
The pain came again. “Mmmaahhh,” Peter cried. A few passing cutouts glanced at him, quickly turning away as they realized what he was. Just a bum. Homeless. Most probably crazy.
 
The pain was worse than ever. He hugged himself. He hugged hard. His eyes were squeezed so tightly shut that the darkness exploded with a million stars. The pain brought on the coughing, as usual. Peter covered his mouth. His entire body shook with the force of his contracting diaphragm. His stomach began heaving, but it had nothing to expel. He had not eaten.
 
Finally, it passed. The pain was still with him, but it was bearable. What appeared to be gray specks, warm and tacky, covered his hands. Peter’s mouth was filled with a familiar taste.
 
He slumped down, the paper sliding out from under him. Yet Peter no longer felt the cold. His body was losing sensation. Again, his eyes were drawn to the moon above him. It was framed in a glowing halo. Peter closed one eye, then the other. His right eye was blurred. As he sat looking toward heaven, the sight in his blurred eye became worse, growing dimmer, going dark.
 
Peter drew himself into a quivering little ball. He cried and rocked himself back and forth. As the beautiful people walked by, Peter battled with his pain and his fear, for Peter now knew that he was dying. He knew that this would be his last night upon the earth.
 
He knew. And he was glad.
 
Peter heard music coming from one of the passing cars. The bass was pushed to the extreme limit. It made his bones shake. It harmonized with the pain within him, sparking memory. For the first time in years, a fog lifted within Peter’s mind, reuniting him with his elusive past.
 
The music began to fade. Boom, boom, boom…
 
Peter had come to the Red Delicious from Shreveport, Louisiana. He came with a dream of the stars. He came knowing that his art, his music, was brilliant enough to catch the eyes of the entire world. And the eyes came to a focus here in the Red Delicious.
 
Of course they told him he was crazy. That it was a one in a million shot, if that. They told him the city would swallow him whole. His father, as is usually the case, protested the most. Childish fantasy, he said. Give it up and grow up, for God’s sake. Go to college, like your brother.
 
But Peter didn’t listen. Not to any of them. It was his dream and he had to try. “Go then. Do what you want,” his father said. That was the last time Peter and his father spoke. Even on the day he left, when everybody turned out to wish him well, his father stayed conspicuously away.
 
I’ll show you, you stubborn bastard, Peter thought.
 
He overheard his mother on the day he left. She had gone to his father, whose body was buried beneath the ’69 mustang he was forever restoring. “Come say goodbye, Charles,” she had said.
 
“Goodbye?” his father said. “What’s good about it? Is it good he’s throwing his life away because of that damned guitar? I’m not saying goodbye to someone who won’t be gone long enough to miss. When he comes back crying and says he’s sorry for putting us through all this crap…well, we’ll talk then.”
 
Thanks for the confidence Pop.
 
And that was that. So when things started going bad, very bad, Peter found he just couldn’t go home. He knew that his mother would say something encouraging like ‘at least you tried’ or ‘you gave it your best’ or ‘better to try and fail than never try at all.’ He could handle that. At least it recognized his conviction without stripping him of his honor.
 
But his father, that was what had kept him away. Peter knew the smug ‘I told you so’ attitude he would be forced to endure for the rest of his life. That’s how his father was. He forgot nothing, forgave nothing. His pride would allow no transgressions. But Peter had his pride, too.
 
He knew he could never go back. And even when things became worse, when he found himself living in the street and eating other people’s garbage, even then…even then he could not go back. He decided to stay, to live with the consequences of his actions. Because it was true, he realized. It was better to have tried and failed than to have never tried.
 
Peter was able to endure wearing the same clothing everyday. He could endure eating half-rotten food. He could endure being seen as a modern day leper. But, he knew he could never have survived a life where he never attempted to achieve his dream. How could someone live always looking to the past, wondering if, maybe, if they had only made the effort…could they have achieved greatness? Could they have made a difference?
 
Yes, Peter thought, he had tried and he had failed. Failed miserably. But he had tried. And that made it all worthwhile.
 
As another maelstrom of pain spun within his tender organs, as another coughing convulsion set upon him, as his life’s blood sprayed onto his frostbitten fingers Peter found he had no regrets. He wished he would have been successful, no question, but he was glad he tried.
 
And, if the opportunity ever came up, he would do it again. He would always follow his heart.
 
Peter would never understand how and why decisions were made. He didn’t know what went wrong. He thought his plan was good. He rode into town with demos of his three of his best songs: ‘No Fool Am I’, ‘Indecision’, and ‘Better Off Dead’. They burned with the full force of his creativity and teenage angst. He brought enough lyrics to fill a double CD set.
 
He stepped off of the bus with his guitar slung across his back and a knapsack in his hand. Just over six grand in American Express travelers’ checks in the pocket of his denim jacket. He had the serial numbers written on a piece of paper in his right Reebok. Another copy he left back home with his mother. Someplace safe. Just like the directions said.
 
He stepped to the sidewalk, smelled the air. “Delicious,” he said out loud. No one noticed, at least they pretended not to. Across the street he heard someone yelling, “hey, hey!”
 
Peter turned to look. No one else did. A middle-aged man in a suit was clutching the vest of some kid in jeans. The kid had a wallet in his hand. The boy, finding he couldn’t get away, turned and hit the suit in the face. With a scream, the man’s hands let the punk go. “Police,” he shouted, wiping the blood from his nose.
 
The kid was gone. No shortage of human dregs in this town.
 
“Wow,” Peter said out loud. It was the Big Apple, alright. Just like television. “The Red Delicious,” he said, for the first time. Peter smiled at his own wit, not knowing this incident was just a warning, a foreboding of what was to come.
 
He found an apartment, nothing fancy. Very cheap. A studio. Still, it cost an arm and a leg by Louisiana standards. And a hell of a lot more by his. But it was enough: a place to keep his guitar dry, a place to write his music. And as long as he didn’t get too crazy after ten or so, no one complained. It was perfect.
 
And Peter came to the city with much more than a guitar and some songs; he came with a plan. Within a week, he had landed a job as a roller-skate messenger. It was something he had seen in a movie, and with a few calls, he found that it was true: such jobs did exist.
 
The city streets were too congested to be an efficient means of delivery. Especially for small packages. With so many large companies crammed into such a small space, interoffice messengers on skates could deliver more product more quickly than any conventional system. Within a week he was employed. He called his mother with the news. “A roller-skate messenger?” he heard his father say in the background. “I’m just so proud.”
 
You never give an inch, do you dad?
 
Peter dressed nicely and clung to his homespun manners. Quickly he was given packages for the most important clientele, at least as far as he was concerned: Atlantic, Columbia House, I.R.S. Some of the top record companies in the entire world.
 
He paid close attention to the names he delivered to. Peter learned who the big boys were, the people who made the decisions. He bid his time. And one day he made his move. Taking the day off, Peter wrapped copies of his demo with a one-page intro letter. Before lunch, he had delivered packages to the heads of all the top record companies in the city.
 
“This is the one he’s been asking about,” Peter would tell the secretaries and assistants. Then he wheeled away. Just another package, nothing unusual. It was a good plan. Well thought out, brilliantly executed.
 
And, unfortunately, not very original: it had been tried before by many others, many times. The executives caught on to this gimmick before Peter was even born. His carefully produced demo, the sweat and blood of his creative talents, ended up unlistened in the trash bins of every major record label in New York City.
 
So Peter waited, he waited and heard nothing, not from anyone. But he knew there would be a light at the end of his tunnel. A bright light. A painful light…
 
And the pain welled up again, hitting him hard and strong. The light was the full, pale moon hanging in the darkness above the Red Delicious. Shadows crossed before it, the cutouts, the beautiful people. Peter heard the jingle of dropped coins, heard them intermingled with the growing murmur of the traffic and the crowd. But the pain pushed all that away, made it a whisper in comparison.
 
Peter coughed violently and blood splashed from him, covering the glass beside him. But Peter didn’t see it, didn’t taste it. Soon, very soon. The vision in his left eye began to blur. The moon regained its halo. Please, he thought, please. Let me keep this light. Let it comfort me. Let it keep me warm. Please, let me have this. Let me have this and I will gladly go.
 
And, as if in answer to his silent prayer, his vision blurred no further. But the rest of his body continued to break down. His bowels gave way. He sat there helpless, half mad, unable to stop the foul warmth spreading within his garments.
 
Time crawled by like a lemming toward destiny. Peter was uncomfortable even through his numbness. The pain was ever present. And still his dream was with him. After that first failure when he still counted himself among the living, his discouragement was almost palpable. But he did not quit…
 
And he decided to spread his talent by playing in coffeehouses and cafes and wherever he could find someone to let him play. The late hours forced him to give up the steadier, better pay of his messenger position, but sacrifices had to be made. Singing didn’t make enough to pay his bills, but he had money left. It was enough to supplement him for a while. Hopefully, it would pay off.
 
Everywhere he played, the crowd loved him. They bought him drinks and asked him to join them. They marveled at his insights and clever rhyme. They asked him where he got his ideas and what motivated his songs. It felt good. It was success in microcosm.
 
Peter would start his sessions with ‘No Fool Am I’. It was a rousing, screw you break up song. It told that no matter how bad you felt now, bitterness would forge your strength, you would survive. He played it solo, although, ideally, it should have been accompanied by bass guitar and drums, as well as his lead and vocals:
 
 
The jukebox is playing
that stupid song
But don’t you worry
it won’t be on long
I’m sick and tired
of that antique tune
I’m gonna hit
that reject soon
 
Wipe out painful
memories
Why can’t I do that
with a memory?
This depression
won’t stay on long
I’m gonna play
another song ‘cause…
 
No Fool Am I
I wont let you use me (use me)
No Fool Am I
I won’t let you do this to me
Go, get out of my life
While I still have my self-respect
So Good Bye baby this record’s an old reject
 
I slip in a quarter
watch the album spin
And hope that hell
will let you in
I think you’ve gone
beyond the point
I guess I’ll have to
blow this joint
 
Drown in cold philosophy
Lose myself to Socrates
How long can I keep control?
Long enough to see you cold ‘cause…
 
No Fool Am I…
 
How long did you think
I’d tag along?
Was I just stupid
or simply wrong?
I snap our song
on shakin’ knees
And let loose
poisoned memories ‘cause...
 
No Fool Am I…
 
 
He wrote that for a girl who had broken his heart, a long time ago and in a far away place. Even now, in his near-death clarity, he could not recall her name. What he did remember, though, was that he did survive. That the pain did subside. That life did go on.
 
Peter hoped that lesson also held true for the experience of death. He would make it through this; the pain would pass with his death. And, hopefully, it would not be the end. Hopefully, there would be something more.
 
He was right, of course. Though never, not even when he was at his creative peak, could he have imagined what would come. Yet it was not quite time yet: he would have to suffer a little longer.
 
As bright as the moon was, even to his diminished sight, it did not overshadow the pale neon accents of the city. That beautiful, glowing purple-blue that was like darkness on fire; the bold in-your-face reds and pinks which seemed to scream for your attention with surreal wickedness; that vibrant green which seemed like the illuminated dispossessed spirit of the endangered forests. All so beautiful, all just an electronic illusion. Here and gone again with the flick of an electric switch...
 
…But as happy as the singing and attention had made him, it also stole the last of his resources. Before he knew it, the money was gone. He went back to the messenger service, got his job back. His dream was deflated but not destroyed. Not until he wiped out on that stupid turn, spraining his ankle. He was not on the books, so no workman’s comp for him.
 
He lost everything then: his job, his apartment…and his dream. Because, in time, the needs of the flesh outweighed the needs of his continued illusions; and the day arrived when he had nothing left to sell, nothing but his guitar. Nothing but his dream.
 
And his dream was worth twenty bucks.
 
It was all the pawnshop would give him, and he was so hungry. He just couldn’t bring himself to eat garbage. Not yet. And so he sold his soul – his dream – for little more than a bowl of lentil soup.
 
Fame had been his birthright, and he had sold it to satisfy the flesh.
 
And now, even his flesh had failed him.
 
Peter didn’t know what he had, he only knew that it would kill him. And, without his dream, he was only bidding his time, for he had died that day; the day he had sold his guitar. The rest was just his waiting to be buried.
 
He felt renewed pain now, bad enough for him to cry. His insides felt like fire. Fluid filled his throat, projected forcefully from his mouth, coating him with the stuff of life. His own.
 
Peter took one final glance at the moon, his guiding light. The halo began to expand, stretching towards him. The lights swirled, pure and almost overpowering, reaching toward him, drawing him in like a child to its mother’s bosom. The longer he looked, the closer it came, the better he felt.
 
The cold melted away like a summer thaw. The silver glow of the moon caressed him like a silken blanket turned to light. The concentric rings reached him, surrounded him, forming a long, shimmering tunnel with the bright bright moon lulling him towards the far end.
 
Music now, he heard music. A sweet chorus. And voices he didn’t know yet could almost recognize. He felt himself drawn toward the light, pulled upwards by some unseen force. His layered rags were gone; he was clothed in the garb of the heavens, spun from the fabric of the stars themselves.
 
“Peter,” the voices called.
 
I am coming, he replied without words. I am coming.
 
As he drew ever nearer to the glowing moon, an amazing peace came upon him. His mind, calmed by this peace, became sharper than he had ever known. Senses which had lain dormant burst forth with dawning realization, adding, multiplying, enhancing the meager human sensations he had known before.
 
Suddenly, he understood all the happenings of his life, saw the pattern that had previously been hidden from him. Yes, he thought, it all makes sense now. It was all so simple.
 
And the lights became shapes, familiar shapes. People he had never met before, yet people who he knew so well. “Grandmother,” he called. She had died when he was still too little to remember her. Yet here she was. And he felt as close to her as if she had raised him his entire life.
 
“Yes, Peter,” she responded. “Join us. Join us all within the glory of the light. Come, find your solace here with us.”
 
And Peter went forth, ever nearer, ever faster.
 
“Yes, I am coming, grandmother,” Peter gave in response. He shouted as if his voice were song.
 
And as he drew closer, Peter came to recognize others. Great uncles, aunts, relatives long dead and far removed. The mothers and fathers of his great grandparents and their mothers and fathers, stretching so far back they became as an ever growing legion. Peter saw that all mankind, living and dead, were all as one interrelated community. He saw that the entire human race was his family.
 
And family was all.
 
The feeling was overwhelming. A feeling far beyond anything he had known in the flesh. He knew now that love was more than a word, more than the frail bond he had known in life. Love was an all-knowing, all seeing force. Love was the law of the Universe.
 
Love was all, and family was love. And all mankind was family.
 
“Peter, come forth…”
 
A voice resonated with the light, a voice from without the light. It was a voice of power. Peter found his progress along the tunnel slowing, his body responding to the command. The words were not of the light.
 
“No,” cried Peter, sending his soul forward, struggling against the pull. He would not be stopped; he would make his way to peace. He would will himself into the moon’s soothing luminance. But his will was not enough.
 
“Peter, come forth,” called the mysterious voice yet again.
 
Peter could not resist the urge, his progress stopped, reversed. “Grandmother, help me,” he urged. But it was useless.
 
“I’m sorry child,” came his grandmother’s reply. “We are powerless against this. Your time has been delayed.’
 
“No, no delays!” Peter shouted. “My time is now. Please let my time be now.”
 
He felt the sorrow in his grandmother’s voice. “No, child. It is not. There is still something for you to do. An important thing. We will see you again. For now, go with care child.”
 
“No,” cried Peter again. But it was useless. He was falling backward, irresistibly drawn back to the flesh. Back to the world of pain. The prospect was not pleasant.
 
He saw the concentric glow of the lunar tunnel recede, collapsing in upon itself. He saw the halo of the moon contract, leaving behind nothing more mystical than reflected solar light.
 
His senses flooded back upon him: the sounds of urban traffic, the murmuring of the nearby crowds, the smell of his foul body…and his sight. His sight was completely restored. This caused him to see the human shadow, cast as a silhouette by the glow of the full moon beyond it.
 
“Peter, come forth,” he heard it say, heard the words echo with a distinct male bass, fusing his unhinged spirit into his wretched flesh once again.
 
No, Peter thought, alive. Alive again. And then Peter realized something else: his mind was clear. His thoughts were lucid, his thinking clearer and more focused than it had ever been.
 
And the pain…the pain was completely gone. He felt a touch upon his shoulder.
 
Slowly, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the features on the face before him became clearer. It was the face of a man in his mid to late twenties. His hair fell about his shoulders in loose curls. It was the color of roasted chestnuts. The beginnings of a moustache and full beard were evident, even in the frugal light.
 
“Is he alive?” Peter saw that behind the man stood a small crowd, nearly a dozen men. The question had come from one of them. For the first time in over a year, Peter found he was embarrassed. He looked away. He could imagine the sight he presented to those gathered around him.
 
The man before him took Peter’s face in his hands, turned it toward him. As their eyes locked, Peter saw that the one before him was no simple soul; there was a glorious power within this man. It was the same power contained in that bright light from which he was so recently torn.
 
“He was never dead,” the Father replied. He held Peter’s gaze, “Were you, my friend?”
 
“No,” Peter answered simply. “There is more to life than the flesh.”
 
The man smiled. “More than you could possibly imagine.” The man rose, extending his hand. “Come with me, friend. I see the intelligence hidden within you. I have freed you from your demons. Join me, join my followers, for you are my Peter, the foundation upon which a new faith shall rise.”
 
Almost rhetorically, Peter asked, “Who are you?” Who are you that can take me from the world of misery into the light of a new day? It was an unnecessary question, yet he needed to hear the words. He needed the words to make this real.
 
 “Who am I?” the figure laughed, slowly and sadly, as if he had been asking himself that same question his entire life. “I am he that liveth and was dead; and, behold, I am alive forever more. And I hold the keys of hell and of death.”
 
And the phrase brought memories back to Peter, memories long lost. Memories of a time when his family was firmly wielded within the aura of the Catholic Church. A world of sacraments, rituals and historic mysticism.
 
Peter’s eyes opened wide: he recalled the words of Revelation. He did not understand how it was possible, but he knew what it meant. The world was about to change; it was about to change drastically.
 
“My God,” whispered Peter in a mix of fear and awe. He didn’t know if his words were a statement or just an expletive.
 
Again the laugh. “No, not quite. But I appreciate the compliment if not the blasphemy. Come, follow me. Follow me and be reborn into a new life.”
 
Peter smiled. The dead end road of his future suddenly became filled with unlimited potentiality. He was glad he had followed his dream. Despite all the pain, all the misery, he found it was a worthwhile journey. Worthwhile because it had lead him here to this moment, this pivotal point in time. And here is right where he wanted to be. He knew who this man was before him. And Peter’s heart and soul would walk with him now and forever.
 
Peter had believed that, given another chance, he would again follow his heart. He was true to his word; and he did follow.