“That very day… two of Jesus’ disciples were going to a village seven miles from Jerusalem called Emmaus…”
Seven miles—or sixty stades. Not an impossible distance, but not insignificant either. Long enough for conversation, for confusion, for disappointment to ripen into something like resignation.
It is a journey measured not merely in distance, but in interpretation.
For along these miles, Scripture is opened, hearts are stirred, and bread is broken—until what was unseen becomes unmistakably present.
I did not go to the crowded, expectant, diocesan Mass—the one that asked something of me beyond my routine, beyond my preference. Instead, I drove some miles out of Amarillo, away from expectation and into familiarity—to the Capuchin Poor Clare Monastery.
And there, I found something I had not entirely expected:
I saw my father again, not in flesh but in recollection—standing beside me in that earlier monastery on Spring Street. Coffee afterward. Conversation. A rhythm that had once seemed ordinary and now feels almost sacramental.
Even the land spoke: a pasture that invited imagination, where I could almost see him planting flowers again, coaxing beauty out of bare ground.
And in that small, quiet chapel, I recognized something else:
Not just the past. Not just the place. But Christ.
In the breaking of the bread, as surely as those travelers at Emmaus.
And yet, here lies the gentle tension:
The disciples did not meet Jesus by avoiding the road—but on it. They did not choose the safer path—but the one they were already walking, even in confusion.
The Christian life is not a question of how far one travels, but of Who one meets along the way.
Miles are a curious thing. They give the illusion of progress while revealing very little about direction.
A man may travel seven miles away from Jerusalem—and yet arrive at Christ. Another may stand still in Jerusalem—and miss Him entirely.
The joke, as always, is divine:
Christ is not waiting at the destination, but walking in the conversation.
The disciples did not recognize Him in the miles—they recognized Him in the breaking.
And perhaps this is my lesson:
The miles I choose matter less than whether I am willing to see Him when He appears.
5. Actio — In Light of Laudato Si’ and Synodality
Saint Therese of Lisieux invites us to practise the little way of love, not to miss out on a kind word, a smile or any small gesture which sows peace and friendship.
Laudato si’ reminds me that journeying is not solitary. We are meant to walk together, to listen, to recognize Christ not only in memory or solitude, but in communion.
Action:
This week, I will take one intentional step with others—attending, participating, or accompanying—even when it stretches my preferences. I will not only walk my own miles, but share them.
For Synodality is not walking farther— it is walking together.
A journey measured in miles may conceal a deeper journey measured in meaning. The real distance is not between places—but between recognition and blindness.
8. Poetic Verse
I walked the road I chose myself, through memory and grace— and found, within familiar miles, a long-forgotten face.
Yet still He walks the harder road I hesitate to tread— not waiting at the journey’s end, but speaking as I’m led.
O let me know Him, mile by mile, not only where I roam— but in the breaking of the bread, that turns all roads to home.
