1. Thoroughly clean the toilet.
2. Add the required amount of shampoo to the toilet water and have both lids lifted.
3. Obtain the cat and soothe him while you carry him towards the bathroom.
4. In one smooth movement, put the cat in the toilet and close both lids. (You may need to stand on the lid so he cannot escape.) CAUTION: Do not get any part of your body too close to the edge, as his paws will be reaching out for any purchase he can find. The cat will self-agitate and make ample suds. Never mind the noises that come from your toilet; the cat is actually enjoying this.
5. Flush the toilet three or four times. This provides a “power-wash and rinse” which I have found to be quite effective.
6. Have someone open the door to the outside and ensure that there are no people between the toilet and the outside door.
7. Stand behind the toilet as far as you can, and quickly lift both lids.
8. The now clean cat will rocket out of the toilet and run outside where he will dry himself.

Sincerely,

The Dog

My cat-owner friends might not find humor in these instructions. That’s because a kitty lover’s idea of cat-care can be radically different from a dog’s idea. It’s all about perspective.

Perspective has a Latin root meaning “look through” or “perceive.” Our perspective is the way we see something, and if based on our biases, can really mess with how God wants us to view His creation. We all know that different perspectives have been known to destroy nations, ruin marriages, cause financial ruin, lead to addictions and incite volatile political arguments.

One Bible story calls attention to perspective. The Israelite soldiers viewed Goliath with fear and trepidation, thinking he was so big he could not be killed, but the young shepherd boy, David, trusting in God alone, saw the giant as a threatless pest who was so big, he couldn’t be missed.

I fear that most of us view some of our perspectives as “giant” differences without taking time to see how God views them. All people are made in God’s image. Should I see others only from my biased (white, Christian, female, conservative) perspective, I will have a narrow comprehension of who God is, and that is the problem. In all candor, it’s my problem.

Recently, for example, I was visiting with a manager of a large company in California. He recently had undergone “sensitivity training” where he learned that there are 53 identifiable genders he needs to understand. (“Healthline” has identified 64. I looked them up.) My first reaction was NOT “I need to understand how God views these distinctions.” It was more like “That’s soooo out of whack!” And since Jesus’ greatest commandment is that we are to love, as a Christian, my perspective cannot permit me not to love those who view things differently than I, no matter how out of whack I think they are.

Horrible, disgusting mushrooms have found a home in my yard.

This, after hiring a landscaping crew to come in four times a year to do whatever landscapers do to keep our grass green and somewhat weed-free.

These mushrooms prevent me from keeping up with my neighbor, the one to the south who last year sodded his yard and installed an irrigation system. Without fail, sprinklers come on in a watering pattern that keeps his grass worthy of a Better Homes and Garden cover photo.

I have zero chance since I am our sprinkler system. I purchased two sprinklers for the days in which it did not rain, and while joined to their 100-ft. hoses, I drag them around the yard, spending hours a week trying to keep my grass green and happy

You can imagine my horror this year when I returned from Mexico to find unwanted demon-guests (aka mushrooms) leeching off the decaying nutrients in my soil.

When no local business offered a solution, I made phone calls to experts and was told that the shrooms no doubt had thrived because of the rain.

“As soon as the sun comes out and the rain stops, they will go away.” Whining to experts has accomplished nothing.

I have spiked the area around the little imps and filled it with liquid detergent. Two gallons of Dawn later, the parasites had turned black and stank horribly. (Stink, stank, stunk…yes, that is correct.

) But then they resurrected in another area, including the edge of my neighbor’s pristine yard, and I felt responsible.

No doubt they had spread their underground mushroom spore-filled gills into Never-Never-Neighbor-Land and now might overtake the entire neighborhood.

I have dug them up and bagged them for disposal. I have doused them with a vinegar/water solution and have treated them with non-soluble fertilizer.

Still, their bothersome bouquets proliferate.

It’s no coincidence that this morning’s Bible reading is in Romans where Paul addresses our sin nature. Several chapters are spent on the entanglement of sin and how easily we continue doing what we should not do instead of understanding that as Christians, we are to move toward holiness.

You know, instead of continuing to feed our souls on rot.

Sin comes natural to us, and like mushrooms, if unchecked, works its way out in thoughts, words, and deeds. If we do not kill the decay upon which our sin is relying for nourishment, it can take over our lives.

The apostle Paul was direct when asked if it’s okay to ignore sin (since we are covered by grace). He used three words to answer: “By no means!” We have to do everything we can to correct all ways we do not reflect Jesus Christ.

In other words, just like the death of the mushrooms is the Sun, the death of our sin is dependent on the Son of God.

I just need to spend as much time with Him as I do the annoying pests in our ground.

“Always read the fine print, from beginning to end.” Great advice from my lawyer-friend. My son is getting married mid-July. Finding a dress to wear for a mountaintop wedding has been a nuptial nightmare, especially since the bride’s mother already has found the perfect ensemble and emailed me a picture of it. The fact that she is a size 6 and I am…well, not, is somewhat disconcerting. (On another note, I am convinced we all will be size 4’s in Heaven.) My friend Marti has been on an internet mission to help me find something stunning. Two days ago, she came across a site that offered an array of sharp, flowing outfits, designed to hide the inner-tube that has, thanks to menopause–and possibly chocolate chip cookies– inexplicably surfaced around my waist. I selected three “hopefuls.” As I was placing my order, intending to return whichever two I did not want, I continued scrolling and was not happy with what I read. The dresses came from China so, in order to return them, I would pay 50% of their cost, plus shipping. Too, there was no real guarantee on the date they would arrive in Kansas. That was the end of that. There is no end to the “Read the fine print” warnings. Fancy-schmancy resorts have been known to hide extra costs in their small print. A $1500 trip can easily turn into a $2000 one based on what the company fails to reveal in its ad. My husband, Dave, recently had a charge of $74.46 for a product he had ordered two months previous. Come to find out, he did not read the fine print from beginning to end: “Approximately 3-4 weeks after your first order is shipped, and approximately every 12 weeks thereafter, you’ll be sent a new 90-day supply of _____.” My Luke Bryan tickets, purchased last year with insurance protection, ended up not protected “should an epidemic occur.” Of course, that was printed on the 244th (wee exaggeration) page of the insurance policy which I did not have four hours to read. There definitely is a benefit to reading to the end, even if it takes a magnifying glass to do so. After home economics teacher Donna Andrews booked her vacation to London, she read the travel insurance policy completely, and that’s where she discovered that it pays to read the fine print. Literally. As the first person to do so, Andrews received a $10,000 prize. It was an effort by Squaremouth to improve travel insurance literacy by encouraging customers to review the entire policy. Squaremouth estimates that less than 1% of travelers who buy travel insurance read all of their policy information. “We’re working to change that,” says Squaremouth CEO Chris Harvey. I love that the Bible has no fine print add-ons. There are no surprises, no “Oops! That really didn’t happen, but it’s a great story, don’t you think?” superfluities. Nowhere in small lettering is anything like “There really is a hidden cost to following the Savior.” That’s because what you read is what you get. Jesus walked on water. He healed the blind. He cured crazy people. He scolded religious leaders. And his disciples, chickens who went into hiding upon his death, turned into fearless, outspoken leaders following his resurrection. Jesus changed history. Forever. And ever. From beginning to end.

Romans 12:10: Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves.

When my two brothers and I were young, our widowed mother insisted that we refer to adults as “Ma’am” or “Sir.” Should we ignore that rule, we would be the recipient of her raised eyebrow, a look for which I was the intended target on multiple occasions. Years later, when I taught in the Texas school system, any “yes” or “no” always was followed by “ma’am.” Always! Imagine my shock when I began teaching in Fort Scott and, on day one, asked a question and was told “Yep.” I almost hyperventilated.

Today, Respect is in short supply. Oh, there are positions—such as the military– that insist on it, but rarely do we see it in action unless it is used to accomplish personal goals.

Dave, my husband, receives daily requests for autographs because of his career in professional baseball. Many times, the same person impersonally sends baseball cards on different dates and writes a simple “Please sign these and return them in the SASE.” One person has sent the same, two-page, hand-written letter at least ten times, but yesterday Dave’s baseball card was a photocopied one that he had signed months ago, only this time the sender tried to erase Dave’s ink signature and asked him to sign over it. Seriously bizarre.

A few days ago, Dave received the most respectful request for an autograph he remembers ever receiving. Hand-written front and back, “Evan” shared that when he grew up, he and his friends played baseball whenever they could, and when Dave became famous for throwing his high curve, “the LaLob,” the group of boys spent hours trying to duplicate the pitch. But then he shared a story about his desire to teach his sons the thrills that come from playing sports and obtaining autographs. The first baseball card he handed his son, the youngster ran his finger across it, thinking it to be a digital screen that would change as he rubbed it. The father realized that this might take more work than he had anticipated.

Evan wrote about a time our son Adam was rehabbing with a minor league Atlanta Braves’ team where the writer and his family were living. Typically, he said, big leaguers who were there to rehab scamper out of the stadium to awaiting cars following those games, but Adam remained behind to sign over 100 autographs, even staying for some stragglers to find pens and paper. Evan thanked Dave for raising such a respectful man who had stayed humble. (Inexplicably, Dave was given all the credit. An oversight, I’m sure.)

Evan took the time to make his letter personal, and yes, I realize there was something in it for him, but he could have done a lot less and received the same autograph.

We respect others when we listen to them, affirm them, defer to them, are polite to them and thank them.

I try to do those things but know I have much room for improvement.

John 6:3-5 demonstrates how seriously Jesus takes a lack of respect. Jesus is being berated for being a nobody. “Isn’t this the carpenter, the son of Mary and the brother of James, Joses, Judas, and Simon? Aren’t His sisters here with us as well?” In other words, “We know this man’s family. Not exactly upper crust. And his career as a handyman certainly doesn’t warrant any accolades.” Then Jesus speaks to them, “Only in his hometown, among his relatives, and in his own household is a prophet without honor.” So, except for a few minor miracles, Jesus “could not perform any miracles there.” Wow! Because the crowd showed Jesus no respect, he was unable to bless them.

How a few kind words could have made a difference!

As we go about our week, let us show everyone we meet they are valued, even if there is nothing in it for us.

“When all you see is your pain, you lose sight of God.” The movie The Shack was recommended to me by several Christian friends. Others pointed to its lack of Biblical truth and refused to watch it. I opted to focus on its elements that line up with my personal faith. The quote written above was one of those moments.

A marriage counseling couple from Detroit came to visit my husband and me. Our friendship began in the late ‘70’s and has continued to this day. They shared how difficult it is to reach others for Christ who choose to host a never-ending pity party. Just recently, after eight years of off-and-on meetings with one particular couple, our friends told the husband and wife that they would continue to pray for them but could see them no more.

“Eight years?” I asked. “I wouldn’t last eight sessions. Did you give them homework and ideas for things they were to work on?”

The answer was yes, every meeting, but nothing changed. Our discussion turned to John 5:6 where Jesus approaches a paralytic and asks, “Do you want to get well?” I’ve written articles on this verse before, and our friends said this couple was an example of individuals who do not.

If you are involved in a prayer chain, chances are you have been introduced to these types of people. I’m not trying to be insensitive, but week after week, year after year, their names appear, their symptoms varying from illness to work issues to family disputes. Tom Ehrich, an Episcopal priest and writer for “Religion News Service,” called complainers “narcissistic.” “Whining makes me the center of everything,” he wrote. A little drastic, in my opinion, because at least these people are seeking prayer. What’s wrong with that?

Nothing, until that becomes their identity. I have two friends whose lives are relentless trials and setbacks, yet they never complain and continue to trust in God’s goodness. If they add their names to a prayer list, things are pretty bad. But let’s face it, some people don’t want to do their part to get well.

Do you remember the story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead? Lazarus exited the tomb bound with graveclothes and his face wrapped with a cloth. Jesus said to the witnesses, “Loose him, and let him go.” Simply being raised from the dead was not enough. Lazarus needed to be unbound. The victim mentality allows Christians to remain in graveclothes that keep them wrapped up in their circumstances. They have made a declaration of faith in Jesus Christ but choose to attach themselves to defeat, refusing to change their focus to 1 John 4:4: He (God) who lives in you is greater than he (Satan) who is in the world.

These grumblers suffer from spiritual amnesia, rarely following up with thankfulness by crediting God for pulling them through their difficulties. That’s because their “rescuer” is people or a prayer chain or, like in my friends’ counseling experience, someone else willing to listen to the wife’s litany of gripes. (And yes, if you are wondering, that marriage ended in divorce.)

My heart aches for people who choose to focus on their misery. Most of the time, my prayers for them have nothing to do with their circumstances but all to do with them seeing how their complaints have become their label. Look again at the quote from The Shack: “When all you see is your pain, you lose sight of God.”

The remedy comes in Colossians 3:2: Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth.

Americans and Canadians are now leaving Mexico and heading home for the summer, and with a goal of ending up with no food in our condos, “Refrigerator Clean-Out” parties abound. So, we all congregate in the condominium of the ones leaving, pick what kinds of cheese or meats or canned goods we might use, thank our generous friends, and then, a few days later, have our own departing exodus get-together, many times giving away what we took from those who left before us.

We prepare our condominiums until we return (hopefully) in the fall. Darkened shades protect the furniture from the sun’s damage, fans help with air circulation, underwear is placed in the refrigerator (Not kidding; it saves the elastic), cars are garaged with trickle-charge batteries attached, and we pray for the best. “Best” meaning no hurricane or tsunami or earthquake or saltwater damage.

Yesterday, making up for lost time, I had a massage.

For years I have heard raves about Corina, the gal who comes to our complex and is a master at relieving tension. She is not for wimps. Corina started off gently, rubbing my shoulder blades before pressing some area above my hip that shot me into orbit. Hers was a two-hand approach, one kneading my left shoulder area near my spine and the other on that hip spot. Mine was a “try not to whimper” approach. Occasionally Corina would find some body part not filled with marbles, but that was rare, and trust me, holding my breath instead of squeezing her tonsils as a reflexive response was exhausting. Following our time together, I spent an hour trying to figure out how my kidneys ended up above my lungs.

Corina’s hands were weapons, a gift from God to torture those of us willing to hand over 500 pesos ($25.00) to be woman-handled.

Yesterday, the day before Dave and I left Mazatlán, I took my friend Saundra’s advice and made an appointment with Diana, the lady across the street who gives facials. My face, it seems, required about 16 steps to repair its damage, the fifth of which was preempted with these words. “This might make you feel like your face is on fire, but it’s necessary because of the sun’s harm to your skin.” At that point, Diana threw kerosene on my face and lit it with a blow torch. By the 10^th step when she “exfoliated” the dirt lurking in the skin of my nose, I was sure I would be faceless for the rest of my life.

Driving across the mountains of Mexico today was a piece of tres-leches cake compared to the pain endured on body parts I had ignored for far too long but had spent hours of the two previous days repairing. Experts were able to see problems under the surface of my skin that I had no idea were there. Instead of a maintenance program, I had allowed things to get out of hand…or back…or face…or wherever. And I paid a price for ignoring what I needed to do.

Don’t we all do that with our spiritual lives? We go through the motions of daily happenings and ignore the warning signs of what our faith requires until jolted awake by our expert Creator, the One who sees danger below the surface. We are shocked by the damage done when our sins get out of control and question why we did not do a maintenance check on our spiritual life.

When did I stop talking to Jesus throughout the day? How did it become so easy not to attend church? What happened to my New Years’ oath that I would study my Bible on a regular basis? If those questions represent you, perhaps it is time for some spiritual kneading or burning or exfoliating…you know, a maintenance program none of us can fail to ignore.

He appeared to be no older than six or seven. Dave and I were on a four-lane road at a stop light in Mazatlán, Mexico, when he walked in front of all of the cars, carrying two plastic balls. The young juggler was going to perform for tips. The only problem was that he couldn’t juggle. He spent more time chasing his errant ball between cars than he did catching it mid-air. Plus, one cannot call transferring two balls from hand to hand “juggling.” Still, many drivers saw beyond his lack of talent and tipped the youngster. Here in Mexico, it is not uncommon for “entertainers” to camp out at busy intersections. From stilt-walkers to break dancers to fire jugglers to acrobats to musicians, all distract bored drivers and passengers, hoping for a few pesos of gratitude. Occasionally entrepreneurs walk up and down the rows of stopped cars, selling strawberries, trash bags or some yellow drink in a water bottle (which I have no plans to ever try). Groups wash windshields for tips, firemen hold out their helmets for handouts, amputees sit on corners, hoping to earn a living, and blind people are led by a helping friend through the rows of cars. You get the picture. There is no shortage of diversions while waiting for a light to turn green. The other day, however, I saw something disturbing. Across the busy street, standing in front of stopped cars coming the opposite direction, was a woman with a child—a child, not an infant– strapped horizontally on her back, while she attempted to juggle. Just as I noticed her, the light changed, and she hustled to the sidewalk area. I determined that when we returned and would be on her side of the street, I would give her more than the usual amount we donate. Our errand was a short one, but when we drove to her spot, she was gone. I was sick. How desperate this mother had to be to traverse through stopped cars in the hot sun doing whatever it took to make a little money! Had I been intentional, I could have had Dave stop in the parking lot after we crossed the intersection and run the money over to her. Instead, I opted to wait until it was convenient. Convenient. Probably not a word in this woman’s vocabulary. What can be convenient about spending my day begging, having no one to watch my toddler while being a side- show for the travelers too inconvenienced to help out? 2 Timothy 4:2 tells us to keep a sense of urgency, whether the situation is convenient or inconvenient, and Proverbs 3:27-28 reinforces Timothy’s writing: Never walk away from someone who deserves help; your hand is God’s hand for that person. Don’t tell your neighbor “Maybe some other time” or “Try me tomorrow. The intersection where that occurred is about 20 minutes from our house. I have returned there a few times, but the woman has been replaced by political supporters working for the upcoming election. Not only did this begging woman lose, but so did I. Pastor Jonathan Del Turco reminds us of who benefits from being put out: “Life teaches us that all too often the best things in life – its greatest breakthroughs, miracles and memories – seem to be deliberately placed just beyond our convenient reach.” I wish I would have thought of that when I had the chance.

“Friends are the family you choose.” Jess C. Scott

Barry, my husband’s longtime baseball buddy, once told him that if you have five close friends when you die, you are lucky. I thought that sad, but the older I get, I realize the blessing—and rarity–that close friends really are. This morning I was examining the friendship between David and King Saul’s son, Jonathan. The chapters in 1 Samuel I find tragic, largely because of Saul’s schizophrenic behavior. One day the king hums along as David accompanies him on the harp, and the next day he throws a javelin at the musician’s head. Into that royal family, Jonathan was born. (I hope you can’t relate.) Scripture says that Jonathan, the King apparent and himself a courageous warrior, was caught in the middle. On days when Saul was in a “Today I’m going to murder David” mood, Jonathan defended Goliath’s slayer, convincing his father to honor David’s bravery and deliverance of Israel from the hands of the Philistines. Sometimes Saul listened; sometimes, not. Jonathan, recognizing his father’s cruel, unforgiving nature as well as God’s desire for David to one day rule as Israel’s king, made a covenant with David, forgoing his own right to step into the king’s role to which he was entitled by giving David his robe, armor, sword, bow and belt. He easily could have despised David for taking his (Jonathan’s) rightful position. Instead, according to Chapter 18 v. 3, Jonathan loved David “as his own soul.” Their bond of friendship was to last forever. Am I that kind of friend? I mean, I care deeply for my friends, but if I’m in line to be King (or in my case, Queen), I question if I would act so unselfishly. Especially when it means I betray my parent (although that’s probably not so difficult since Saul even tried to murder Jonathan). Especially when it means I put my life in danger. Especially when it means my friendship is pretty one-sided. Especially when it means I will become a casualty instead of wearing the crown. It’s a kind of friendship concerned only with what I give and not what I get. Professor of psychology Robin Dunbar’s research survey concluded that the average number of Facebook friends possessed by most people is around 150. Out of those, 28 might be recognized as low-level “friends.” But when participants were asked how many of those friends would help out in a time of need, emotional distress, or other crisis, the average answer was four. Maybe my husband’s friend was right. Scripture tells us that Jonathan was married and had children and that both he and his father were killed in battle. When news of their death came, the nurse of Jonathan’s son Mephibosheth dropped the young lad when fleeing their home, causing him to be lame. This, years later, gave David an opportunity to repay Jonathan for saving his life multiple times as he offered to help “someone” in his former friend’s family. Mephibosheth was suggested, so David had the boy brought to him. From then on, Jonathan’s son was treated like one of David’s children. It’s a sweet ending to a friendship—and a rarity of Old Testament happy news– that appeared so one-sided for so many years, a payback for Jonathan who loved David unconditionally. It’s the kind of friend I hope to be. A forever friendship…forever.

 

If you want happiness for an hour, take a nap.

If you want happiness for a day, go fishing.

If you want happiness for a year, inherit a fortune.

If you want happiness for a lifetime, help somebody else.

A friend sent me that advice, and I agree. Most of my best memories involve me doing something for someone else, probably because the blessings are endless. Author/physician E. Dorinda Shelley wrote that doing for others helps us replace negative thoughts with happy feelings of gratitude and optimism. Last month, I helped make 250 sandwiches for the workers at the dump here in Mazatlán. My U.S. relatives and friends had donated hotel lotions, shampoos, etc., so I divided them up into 80 Ziploc bags and took them with me, as they are a highlight for the dump workers who spend 14 hours a day in the hot sun, scrounging for cardboard or plastic or metal. The bus was full of volunteers—ranging in age from six to…well, my age– wanting to be a part of the giving. I sat next to Lea, a petite 11-year-old who was vying for the “Snottiest Preteen in the World” contest. She gave new meaning to “making small talk” by responding to my attempt at conversation with one-word answers before turning her body to look out the bus window. Unlike me who has participated enough times that I have no need to be involved in the handouts, most people love to distribute a sandwich or an orange or a bottled water or my bags of goodies. The young gal in charge (her first time in this role) asked that everyone be given a chance to help. Greedy Greg had other plans. As soon as the bus stopped, G.G. bounded from the bus, blocking the doorway while playing hero to the workers. He and he alone would pass out the sandwiches. I was becoming more and more frustrated and finally spoke up to our guide. “Can’t some other people have a turn? I bet all these kids would love to hand out a sandwich” (meaning, of course, except for Lea who probably would hiss at or bite the workers). Our leader said nothing and let G.G. have his time to shine until, finally, a dad yelled out the bus window at G.G. to let others have a turn. By then there were about 25 sandwiches left. When the volunteers re-boarded the bus, Lea chose a different seat. Can I tell you how much fun I was NOT having? What happened to my “happy feelings of gratitude and optimism” replacing my “negative thoughts”?

They were right where they were last year when I didn’t help a young couple at the Walmart auto service department. They came in, dirty and needing to replace a shredded tire so they could continue on their trip. When they were heard the cost–$88.00—they told the lady behind the desk that they didn’t have that much money. And they left. And I watched them go. I had $88.00, but I did nothing. I just sat there, rationalizing my lack of charity, and I now can’t get that couple out of my unempathetic head.

Philippians 2:3: Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves…

Jesus said that it is more blessed to give than to receive, and Paul writes in Hebrews that our sacrifices are pleasing to God. But God doesn’t stop by simply being “pleased.” He wants us to put others first, for then we end up being blessed, many times more than the recipient of our well-doing. (You know, that “happy feelings of gratitude and optimism” thing.) It’s a win-win undertaking, and one with eternal rewards.

Or so I’ve been told.

Easter season has passed. Colorful baskets are bubble-wrapped and stored in plastic containers, chocolate marshmallows have done their diet damage, and pastel, church clothes are washed and hung for the next dress-up event. Ham and scalloped potato leftovers have been devoured, the Easter bunny has started his/her 12-month hibernation, and soon 4^th of July gizmos will begin appearing in store windows. We move on. Jesus did too. Three days after his death he joined two faith-shaken men—one named Cleopas and one unnamed– in their walk home after witnessing the crucifixion of the one they trusted would save them from the Romans. Seven miles outside of Jerusalem a stranger joined them and questioned their grief. Stopping in their tracks, one said to the outsider, “You must be a visitor to Jerusalem. If you lived there, you would know the things that have happened there in the last few days.” After all, anybody who was anybody had heard of the crucifixion… anybody, it appeared, except this man. So, they filled him in on the details of the empty tomb. As one pastor preached this past Sunday, “Nobody saw no body in the tomb.” What they didn’t know was the stranger walking alongside them was the very one about whom they spoke. I love the irony: “Are you the only one who does not know…?” when they are addressing the only one who really does know! (Filling Jesus in on his death is sort of like me explaining electrons to Albert Einstein.) The stranger confronted them. “How foolish you are! How long it takes you to believe all that the prophets said! Didn’t the Christ have to suffer these things and then receive His glory?” Beginning with Moses, he explained to them how the one crucified fulfilled death and resurrection prophecies made thousands of years before. (Since there are over 300 such prophecies in the Old Testament, I assume Jesus shared only the most relevant ones.) Wanting to hear more, the men begged this learned man to join them at their home for dinner. It was there Jesus broke bread, and the pair’s eyes were open to recognize their Savior, very much alive and reclining at their kitchen table. Once Jesus left, they couldn’t wait to share the good news (Is it any wonder that “Gospel” means “Good News”?) with Jesus’ closest followers, the disciples, so they sprinted back to Jerusalem to relive their encounter with their Risen Lord. So, let’s backtrack to look at a few hidden nuggets in this scripture. Did you ever question why only one of the traveler’s names is given? Some speculate that this was intentional so that we would put ourselves in the place of the nameless journeyman. If so, we should imagine the joy experienced when the once-downtrodden men realize that they have witnessed the unthinkable. The story in which they are partnering has a new beginning. The grave is empty because Jesus is alive! And they are in the elite group to witness the miracle first-hand. I wonder how many of us, like the two men, “miss” Jesus. We expect him to show up at a Sunday morning church service or a trip to a mission field, but not right beside us as a fellow sojourner. If we’re not alert and ready, we won’t take the time to invite him into our lives, and we will keep hopelessly strolling down the road without recognizing his presence. Instead, let us keep Easter season alive. Let us expect Jesus to join us in our daily walk so that we never miss an opportunity to spread the “Good News.”