There's something which seems to creep into the air after Easter Day. Perhaps it's that the build up is so dramatic that it never quite reaches our expectations, or maybe it's just that once we've experienced the heady heights of celebration everything else seems kind of second rate. There's a kind of disappointment which sets in, a flatness, into which all our fears, all our hurts come flooding in.
Trivial things become blown out of proportion, old pains begin to ache.
For the disciples that was fishing. It had been a long three years, long, and wonderful. Jesus had called them from their fishing boats, called them to travel beyond their villages, to learn and then teach and heal. They had seen places their families had only heard of, they had rubbed shoulders with the highest of religious leaders and the lowest of desperate outcasts. They had seen it all, seen, even, the aching death of their Lord, nailed on a cross in agony and laid in a cold stone tomb.