He is risen! Let every creature rejoice and every heart give thanks, for the Lord has conquered death and filled the world with new light!

After carefully arranging the best china dishes in the cupboard for the next celebration, I finished off the ear of a chocolate rabbit and headed down to the shore.

Making myself comfortable on a rock, I watched Sammy sniff through the sand, completely absorbed in his own important work, while a blue and white fishing boat returned from its catch, trailed by a flock of noisy seagulls.

Christ is risen. Ok. Now what?

Peter answered that question by saying, “I’m going out to fish,” and was immediately followed by his friends. After everything that had happened, the years with Jesus, the cross, the empty tomb, and the shock and joy of seeing Him alive again, that decision feels almost too ordinary, and yet it makes perfect sense.

Peter returned to what he knew, not because it was better, but because it was predictable and felt manageable. When life becomes overwhelming or stretches beyond our understanding, familiarity can feel like the safest choice.

So they pushed out into the night, not as beginners trying their luck, but as experienced fishermen who knew those waters intimately, who understood the rhythms, the currents, and the secret hideouts of even the most elusive fish.

And yet the nets came back empty, time after time, until by morning, worn out, frustrated, and likely very hungry, they turned the boat back and noticed someone standing on the shore, someone they did not recognize at first.

He called out to them, asking a question they probably did not want to answer, “Friends, haven’t you any fish?” to which they responded simply, “No.”

Then He told them to throw their net on the right side of the boat, and whether they thought it was pointless or whether they were simply too tired to argue, they did it anyway. This time, the net filled suddenly, bursting with fish, and in that moment, before anything was explained or understood, they recognized Him.

“It is the Lord.”

When they reached the shore, they found that Jesus already had a fire going with fish and bread prepared for breakfast, which meant that even before they brought anything of their own, He had already provided for their needs, quietly and completely, always one step ahead of them.

Most of us are not stepping out of fishing boats at dawn after witnessing the incredible resurrection of the Messiah, but we do know what it feels like to have life shift in both positive and difficult ways, sometimes without warning and rarely with clear instructions, leaving us trying to figure out how to live inside something that no longer quite fits the way it used to.

Sometimes, the changes are positive, such as getting a new job, earning a promotion, moving to a new place, or taking on new responsibilities. Something we’ve hoped for finally becomes a reality, and we step into it with excitement, ready to work and succeed. We cast our nets the way we always have, using the same methods, instincts, and expectations.

Then there are the changes we don’t choose. The death of a loved one that creates a void in our lives or a season of caring for someone else, during which our own lives quietly get tucked away and forgotten. It could be health that used to cooperate but suddenly decides it has other plans, or work that disappears, shifts, or refuses to take us back, no matter how politely we knock. Finances might shift from manageable to creative, leaving us with less security. Relationships that feel solid until they aren’t, and leave us wondering when and how that happened.

And sometimes, nothing obvious has changed at all, but we feel stuck, like we’re no longer moving forward, whether in our faith, our work, our projects, or the things we once felt called to do.

Yet, we keep casting in the same waters.

Sometimes our nets return full, but for some reason, those fish aren’t as tasty as they used to be. Even a generous amount of salt or a bold splash of Tabasco, applied with hope and very little restraint, doesn’t seem to fix it. Or, we finish our meal only to find ourselves oddly hungry again half an hour later.

Sometimes the nets might come up half-empty, leaving us wondering if some of our old fish friends have quietly moved on and forgotten to leave a forwarding address.

Sometimes the nets are completely empty, which is extremely discouraging, especially when we’re already tired. Naturally, we think the solution is to try harder, because that’s always worked before, and if it doesn’t work this time, then clearly the answer is to try even harder. These fishing spots have paid off in the past, so why would that change now?

What we begin to realize, often gradually and with some resistance, is that returning to what we know doesn’t always work. Not because we’re doing something wrong, but because we’re not the same person anymore. Something in us has shifted, and because of that, the old waters no longer respond in the same way.

I know how that feels. God granted me a miracle at Lourdes, not because I deserved it or earned it in the slightest, and not because I was even looking for Him, but because He came looking for me, and that moment turned my life upside down.

For a while, life felt full and blessed in a way that is difficult to describe, like nets that kept filling faster than I could process, with meaning and grace.

Then things began to fall apart until I found myself in a place with no job, no security, or backup plan, zero self-esteem, and a growing sense that I no longer belonged anywhere. In an ever-increasing panic, I got up early and went fishing every day, casting those nets repeatedly and hauling them back wet and heavy with failure and disappointment. One sunny day, I caught a minnow, but it didn’t go very far. The next week, my net came back with a piranha disguised as an opportunity, and it took me a moment to recognize the danger. Before it could jump into the boat, I quickly threw it back into the murky depths to await its next victim.

One day, while I was floundering at sea and feeling very sorry for myself, I wearily lifted my head and looked toward the shore. There, I saw a whole crowd cheering me on, my husband, my sister, family, and friends, all there in different ways, keeping me from sinking completely. They offered meals of encouragement, support, patience, prayers, and a generous portion of love. Those fish were filling and delicious.

With their help and a generous dose of faith, I learned to cast in waters unfamiliar to me, and the fish had a different kind of taste. It was no longer dominated by recognition, success, or money, but seasoned with something quieter that lingered on the palate—a sense of gratitude, mindfulness, a willingness to stay present, and a growing sense of love and unity with creation.

I cannot hand you a map drawn on a paper napkin showing the way to those waters. Not because I would withhold it, but because each person must discern their own way, their own shoreline, their own place where the nets are cast, and the journey gradually unfolds.

Peter went back to fishing because he needed something solid, something he understood, but despite all his experience and effort, the nets remained empty. Then he listened to the One on the shore who told him where to fish anew. I bet that breakfast with his friends and Jesus on the shore was one of the best meals of his life.

He is risen. Now what? Maybe it’s time for a fresh start. Instead of trying to perfect our fishing skills in familiar waters, let’s have the courage to cast our nets somewhere new. And remember to look up every now and then—there’s usually someone on the shore waiting for you with a hot breakfast already prepared.