It’s the day after the miracle. The tomb is empty, but life still feels uncertain. Joy has been proclaimed, but not yet fully grasped. The world has changed, but not everyone knows how to live in it yet. The in-between moment between revelation and understanding, hope and clarity, resurrection and recognition.
Two disciples, confused and heartbroken, walk a dusty road away from Jerusalem. They had hoped Jesus was the one to redeem Israel. But hope, to them, had died on a cross. Even though resurrection had already happened, they hadn’t yet perceived it. Jesus draws near, but they do not recognize Him. They speak of Him in the past tense, while He walks beside them in the present.
This is the grief of the liminal: the space between loss and new life, where we are not yet able to see what has already begun. But notice how Jesus responds. He doesn’t scold. He walks. He listens. He teaches. And then—He stays. He stays long enough for them to recognize Him in the breaking of bread. Sometimes it takes time for resurrection to sink in.
Easter Monday is that kind of day.
Not a loud celebration, but a quiet unfolding. Not clarity, but the beginning of awareness. Not the empty tomb, but the long walk home with a Stranger who turns out to be the Savior. We live much of our lives on this Emmaus Road—processing, wondering, struggling to interpret what God is doing. The good news is we do not walk it alone. Jesus is with us. Even when we don’t recognize Him. Even when we are moving in the wrong direction. Even when our hope feels like a past-tense prayer. And in time, our eyes are opened.
The risen Christ walks the long road. He is patient with your pace. He meets you in the middle. And when the time is right—your heart will burn within you.
What might it mean that Jesus walks with you there—even when you don’t see Him clearly?
How might He be speaking, staying, and breaking bread in ordinary places of your life?
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