DAWN ON THE SHORE OF REGRET: HOW JOHN 21 REWRITES YOUR ENDING
- Douglas Vandergraph
- 2 hours ago
- 6 min read
There are moments in Scripture where the world seems to hold its breath. Moments where the sky feels thin, the ground feels holy, and the human heart feels seen. John 21 is one of those moments. It is a chapter not written with thunder, but with whisper. Not wrapped in spectacle, but in softness. Not shaped by power, but by love so tender that strength becomes indistinguishable from mercy.
It is the moment when a resurrected Savior steps into the quiet despair of a disciple who believes he has gone too far to ever return. A disciple whose courage once ran hot but now runs cold. A disciple drowning in the memory of the rooster’s cry. A disciple who cannot outrun the echo of his own denial.
John 21 is not a story about failure. It is a story about the God who refuses to let failure have the final word.
THE WEIGHT OF RETURNING TO WHAT ONCE WAS
Before the miracles come the moments of confusion.
Peter says, “I’m going fishing.”
Not because he suddenly misses the sea. Not because he needs a break. Not because he wants fresh air.
He is going fishing because he doesn’t know who he is anymore.
He once walked on water. He once vowed loyalty unto death. He once held the keys of the Kingdom. He once watched glory unfold before his eyes.
And then he denied the One he loved.
Shame has a way of peeling identity off the bones.
So Peter reaches backward, reaching for the version of himself he understands. The nets. The waves. The rhythm of casting. The tug of a catch. The simplicity of a life without calling.
When a heart believes it has failed God too deeply, it gravitates toward the last place it felt competent.
And the others follow him — not because they should, but because grief walks in groups.
They fish all night. They catch nothing.
Because old identities cannot carry new callings. Because the familiar cannot nourish the restored. Because the places we run to after failure cannot feed the hunger of destiny.
Sometimes empty nets are mercy in disguise.
THE FIGURE STANDING WHERE THE WATER MEETS THE LIGHT
As dawn presses softly across the horizon, a silhouette appears on the shore.
No halo. No radiance. No holy glow.
Just a presence. Just a voice.
“Children, do you have anything to eat?”
They do not.
They speak their emptiness aloud.
Then Jesus offers a simple instruction that carries the weight of memory:
“Cast the net on the right side of the boat.”
They obey — not because it makes sense, but because something in the voice sounds like the beginning of their calling.
The nets explode with life.
Fish thrash against rope. Water churns beneath them. Abundance strains the edge of the boat.
And John whispers the truth Peter’s heart is already leaping toward:
“It is the Lord.”
Peter stops thinking. Peter stops remembering. Peter stops hiding.
He leaps into the sea.
There is no hesitation in love. There is no deliberation in surrender. There is only movement — movement toward the One who knows every wound and calls anyway.
Peter swims through the cold morning water, racing toward a shoreline he never thought he would face again.
THE FIRE THAT HEALS WHAT MEMORY BROKE
When Peter reaches the shore, he sees it:
A charcoal fire.
The last charcoal fire he stood beside burned on the night of his denial.
The smell of charcoal lingers in memory the way regret lingers in the heart.
Jesus recreates the scene not to reopen the wound, but to heal it.
Memory is the doorway through which restoration must pass.
Jesus prepares breakfast — fish and bread — the same Savior who defeated death now bends over flames to feed men who abandoned Him. This is the kind of love that cannot be explained, only received.
Grace does not greet you with accusation. Grace greets you with a meal.
Come and eat, Jesus says.
The invitation is as gentle as sunrise.
WHEN JESUS SPEAKS TO THE WOUND YOU HIDE
After breakfast, Jesus turns toward Peter.
Not toward the miracle. Not toward the net full of fish. Not toward the fire.
Jesus turns toward the wound.
“Simon, son of John…”
Not Peter. Not Rock.
Jesus begins where the fracture began — at the name Peter carried before calling reshaped him.
“Do you love Me more than these?”
There is no aggression in the question. There is only the kind of tenderness that disarms the soul.
Peter answers with none of the bravado that once defined him:
“Lord, You know that I love You.”
And Jesus responds:
“Feed My lambs.”
Jesus does not mention the denials. He does not dissect the failure. He does not replay the scene.
He hands Peter his calling back.
This is Jesus saying: "I have not changed My mind about you.” “Your sin did not void your purpose." Your regret does not disqualify your future.” “Your story is still alive.”
Then Jesus asks again.
And again.
Three times — not to shame Peter, but to heal him in the same rhythm that he wounded himself.
The third time, something inside Peter breaks open.
“Lord, You know all things; You know that I love You.”
This is not a confession of confidence. This is surrender.
Jesus answers:
“Feed My sheep.”
He restores Peter not partially, but fully. Not back to neutrality, but back to leadership. Not to a place of safety, but to a place of calling.
Because grace does not clip your wings. It teaches you how to fly again.
WHEN JESUS TELLS YOU WHAT YOU WILL BECOME
Jesus then reveals something staggering:
Peter’s future will be marked by courage so deep that fear will never own him again.
He tells Peter he will one day stretch out his hands — a sign of the death he will die.
Jesus is not punishing him. He is honoring him.
He is saying, “The man who broke in fear will stand unbreakable in love.”
And then the words that shaped Peter’s entire life return:
“Follow Me.”
Not “Follow Me if you get it right." Not “Follow Me if you never slip again." Not “Follow Me only if you feel worthy.”
Just:
“Follow Me.”
Because calling rests on Jesus’ faithfulness, not Peter’s flawlessness.
THE POISON OF COMPARISON AND THE CURE OF PURPOSE
As they walk, Peter looks back and sees John following.
“What about him?” Peter asks.
Comparison slips quietly into restored hearts.
Jesus answers in a way that frees Peter forever:
“If I want him to remain until I return, what is that to you? You follow Me.”
There is no comparison in the Kingdom. There is only calling.
Jesus is saying:
“His story is not yours. ”His burden is not yours. ”His journey is not yours. ”Your path is handcrafted by My hands for your purpose.”
Follow Me.
The cure for comparison is clarity of calling.
THE WORLD COULD NOT HOLD ALL HE DID
John ends his Gospel with a sentence so vast it bends the mind:
“If everything Jesus did were written down, the world itself could not contain the books.”
This is not poetic exaggeration. It is spiritual truth.
Jesus is too deep for documentation. Too alive for one Gospel. Too glorious for one lifetime of study.
He is a story still unfolding in every person who answers His call.
THE GOD WHO MEETS YOU IN YOUR ASHES
John 21 stays with us because it speaks to the places we try not to look.
The places where we:
Go back to old habits. Collapse under regret. Hear the rooster of past mistakes. Hide behind the shame of failure. Run to comfort rather than calling.
It reminds us:
Jesus still stands on familiar shores. Jesus still calls us by name. Jesus still builds charcoal fires where memories hurt. Jesus still feeds hungry hearts. Jesus still asks healing questions. Jesus still restores purpose. Jesus still rewrites endings. Jesus still says “Follow Me.”
Peter walked into that dawn believing his story was over. He walked away carrying the calling that changed the world.
And the same Jesus who restored him stands today beside the shore of your regret ready to restore you.
Your friend in Christ,
Douglas Vandergraph
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