Chapter 20 | The Sons of Thunder
They did not leave when the worst was cleared.
By late afternoon the worst of the broken posts had been righted and the sagging rows propped where they could be saved. Mud streaked every hem. Hands were blistered raw. And yet when the light softened and the air cooled, these men did not gather their cloaks and move on.
They stayed.
Peter had commandeered a section of the lower terrace as if it were a fishing boat that simply needed steering. He barked instructions without apology.
“John, pull that post straighter—no, straighter. You’re gentle like you’re tucking it into bed.”
John rolled his eyes but obeyed, quiet and methodical. There was something different about him from his brother—less edge, more watchfulness. He noticed where cords were fraying before they snapped. He tightened without being asked.
Abba sat in the courtyard, sorting through the cut clusters—turning them gently, setting aside what was bruised or spoiled.
Andrew, Peter’s brother, worked beside him without fuss, listening more than speaking. When a basket filled, he simply lifted it away and set another in its place, matching Abba’s pace without drawing attention to it.
Nathanael stood with Baruch over a damaged row, studying it before touching anything.
He did not rush. He crouched, lifted a broken shoot, traced the split with careful fingers.
“This one can be saved,” he said at last, almost to himself. “Cut right above the tear. Leave two buds.”
Baruch squinted at him. “You know vines?”
“I know fig trees,” Nathanael replied mildly. “And people.”
Baruch grunted. “People don’t grow back as easy.”
Nathanael glanced toward Lavi, who was dragging kindling into a pile far larger than necessary. “Some do,” he said quietly.
I found myself noticing that about him—how he looked at a thing before judging it. How he weighed instead of reacted.
Peter clapped the other James, the smaller one, on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him. “Talia, you should hear this one preach.”
The smaller James shot him an annoyed look. “Must we do this here?”
“Oh, especially here,” Peter insisted. “She thinks we’re only fishermen.”
“I don’t think that,” I said.
Peter grinned. “Good. Because James here can move a crowd faster than I can empty a net.”
The smaller James straightened a little despite himself. He was compact, broad through the shoulders, his movements economical. Nothing about him drew attention—until he spoke.
Andrew nodded toward him. “In Magdala last month. A courtyard full of men who didn’t want to hear us.”
“They wanted to argue,” Peter corrected.
“They wanted to argue,” Andrew agreed. “James stood and spoke about mercy—without raising his voice, without force. Only clarity. And the arguing stopped.”
The smaller James shifted awkwardly. “They were already listening.”
“No,” Nathanael said gently. “They weren’t. You made them.”
The compliment was quiet and certain.
I watched the smaller James’s ears redden.
“James the Lesser,” Peter declared, “only because he’s smaller than this one.”
He jerked his thumb toward the other James.
The larger James didn’t look up from the knot he was tying. “I didn’t choose the name.”
Peter smirked. “Nor did he. But I’m telling you now—smaller doesn’t mean lesser.”
The smaller James snorted. “Careful, Peter. You’ll make me proud.”
“Already are,” Andrew said.
The ease between them caught me off guard. They were not posturing. They were not competing.
They were… brothers.
Drawn to their warmth, Lavi drifted closer to them.
“What about you?” he asked Peter. “Do you preach too?”
Peter laughed. “I try.”
“He preaches like he fishes,” John said dryly. “Loud and confident even when he hasn’t caught anything yet.”
Peter tossed a broken twig at him.
“And you?” I asked John.
He shrugged. “I listen, and I watch, and I write..”
“That’s true,” Nathanael said. “He sees things first.”
John’s gaze flicked toward me briefly, and I felt as though he saw more than I intended to show.
“And what about our James?” Lavi pressed, pointing toward the larger one.
Leaning back against a half-reset post, Peter said, “Ah. This big guy?”
“James the Greater,” the smaller James said dryly, clearly teasing. “At least in his own mind.”
I laughed before I could stop myself. James shot the other man a look. “You are very funny.”
“What about him?” I asked, trying to sound unaffected.
Andrew smiled faintly. “You should have seen him last week. There was a little girl. Fevered. Near death. He healed her.”
My stomach lurched.
“You healed someone?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
James stood slowly.
“It wasn’t me,” he said evenly. “It was through His power,” he clarified. “He sent us with authority.”
My gut flared in protest.
Authority? To heal?
The Law was clear. Only God restores life.
I opened my mouth—and closed it again.
James met my eyes, seeing the argument forming there.
I chose silence instead.
“And not everyone is pleased about such things,” Andrew added.
Peter barked a laugh. “That’s generous.”
Nathanael’s mouth curved faintly. “Some towns are less welcoming.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, we were nearly stoned in one,” John offered.
“Nearly?” I asked.
“We ran,” Peter admitted.
“Fast,” Andrew added.
I folded my arms and turned back to James. “Are you being careful?”
He straightened at once, chin lifting in mock offense.
“Careful?” he boomed, spreading his arms wide. “We are the Sons of Thunder.” He shot a look toward John. “Right, brother?”
John blinked slowly. “I don’t think that’s something we should be boasting about.”
Peter groaned. “Now she’ll want the story.”
I smiled. “Sons of Thunder?”
John sighed. “It’s what He called us. We don’t need to discuss it further.”
“Oh, I think we do,” I said.
The smaller James grinned openly. “Yes. Tell her about it.”
James exhaled through his nose. “Samaria,” he said at last. “They wouldn’t receive the Teacher. Wouldn’t offer water. Wouldn’t listen.”
“We were offended,” John added.
“Offended enough to suggest fire,” Peter supplied.
I blinked. “Fire?”
James rubbed the back of his neck. “We asked if He wanted us to call it down from heaven and consume them.”
“You what?”
“We thought we were being zealous,” John said.
“We thought we were defending Him,” James added, though there was less certainty in it now.
“And what did He do?” I asked.
“He rebuked us,” John said simply.
“And named us,” James finished. “Boanerges. Sons of Thunder.”
The men laughed, but not unkindly.
Nathanael’s voice drifted in, calm as ever. “You should tell her the other story.”
James went still. “No.”
My interest sharpened. “What other story?”
Nathanael’s expression did not change. “They asked to sit at His right and left in His kingdom.”
I turned slowly to James. “You did not.”
He pointed down the slope. “Walk.”
John followed a few paces behind, folding his arms. “Chaperone,” he announced lightly.
I glanced back once. Lavi was retelling the storm to Baruch and Peter, arms moving wide, caught up in the story.
James and I moved away from the firelight until the laughter dimmed to a low hum.
After a moment he said, “It’s true. We asked Him if we could sit at His right and left when He came into His kingdom.”
“You actually asked that?”
He winced. “We didn’t understand. None of us did. We thought He’d rule like David—on a throne, with soldiers and power. We wanted to be near Him when it happened. To be seen beside Him. To protect Him.”
“And what did He say?”
“He said, ‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’” A quiet exhale followed. “And He was right.”
The wind shifted between the vines.
“The more He speaks,” James continued, “the more the kingdom sounds… different.”
“Different how?”
“He calls the poor blessed. Says the meek will inherit the earth. Tells us to love our enemies.” His jaw tightened slightly. “He gathers tax collectors and zealots into the same circle. He kneels and washes feet.”
That silenced me.
“He never speaks of crushing Rome,” James went on. “Not of armies or iron chariots. Not of taking thrones by force. He speaks of mercy. Of forgiveness. Of turning the other cheek.”
“That doesn’t sound like a king,” I said quietly.
A drop of rain struck the back of my hand.
“He’s not a king riding in on warhorses,” James said, almost to himself. “Not the kind we imagined.”
Another drop fell. Then another.
“He is not—” he glanced upward as the rain began to thinly fall “—thunder.”
The drizzle strengthened.
“He is compassion,” James said, searching for the right words. “Mercy. Grace. Healing. He sees what others cast aside and calls it worthy. He bends. He listens. He weeps.”
Water slid from leaf to leaf, darkening the soil.
“I still don’t fully understand, but I don’t think He’s a storm coming to tear down and destroy,” James finished, rain settling steadily around us. “He is more like… like rain.”
The word lingered between us as the earth drank it in.
It was easier when he was loud. When he was brash and unyielding and wrong.
This—this quiet conviction—made him harder to dislike.
I studied him. “How can you follow someone you don’t fully understand?”
He did not hesitate. “Because every time I think I’ve grasped Him, He proves Himself greater than my grasp. If I understood everything, He would only be a teacher.”
“And He’s not?”
“No.” His gaze held mine. “I keep telling you Talia. He’s more than that.”
The rain strengthened.
Without comment, he lifted his cloak and angled it over my head.
John’s voice drifted faintly from up the slope. “I can see you.”
“Just keeping her dry,” James called back.
I opened my mouth to protest, but the words dissolved.
I looked up at him instead—rain threading through his hair, water catching on his lashes. I no longer saw swagger, only care.
Something moved low in my stomach.
“Thank you,” I said.
He nodded once, accepting it as enough.
We walked back toward the others together, the rain soft but persistent.