That is a striking answer because it goes against the way we usually think. We tend to believe that the best things happen in the best conditions. We imagine clarity comes when life is organized, when the road is smooth, when everything is finally under control. Fleming’s reply suggests something else. Sometimes what seems inconvenient, unfinished, or frustrating becomes part of the discovery itself.

In much the same way, the Gospel shows us that God often works not in the polished moments of life but in the unfinished ones. The disciples on the road to Emmaus are not walking through a peaceful, uplifting moment. They are leaving Jerusalem with heavy hearts. Their hopes have been shaken. They are trying to make sense of what happened to Jesus and what it now means for them. It is not a strong moment of faith. It is a moment of confusion. And yet it is precisely there, on that road, that the risen Lord comes near.

That tells us something important about the way God works. Jesus does not wait until they are calm, confident, and ready to believe again. He meets them while they are still disappointed. He joins them while they are still trying to understand. Grace begins not after the struggle, but within it.

That is why this Gospel feels so close to ordinary life. Most people do not struggle with faith in abstract ways. They struggle with it in the middle of real things: grief, family worries, unanswered prayers, responsibilities that feel heavy, disappointments that do not go away. Very often people think that once these things settle down, then they will pray better, trust more deeply, and recognize God more clearly. But the story of Emmaus shows that the Lord often meets us before life becomes clear, not after.

The disciples say something deeply human: “We were hoping.” In that short line, you can hear all the sorrow they are carrying. They had hoped Jesus would redeem Israel. They had hoped the story would move in another direction. They had hoped the one they trusted would not end on a cross.

That sentence still lives in people’s hearts. We were hoping the diagnosis would be different. We were hoping the family situation would improve. We were hoping this burden would have passed by now. We were hoping God would answer another way.

The sadness of this Gospel is not only that Jesus died. It is also that their hopes seem to have died with him. And that is exactly why this encounter is so powerful. Jesus does not begin by correcting them harshly. He enters their conversation. He listens. He lets them speak their disappointment. Then, slowly, he begins to lead them from confusion toward understanding.

And what does he do first? He opens the Scriptures. He helps them see that the cross was not the collapse of God’s plan, but part of its fulfillment. That matters because we often want God to remove every hard thing immediately. Instead, he sometimes begins by giving us light to see it differently. The suffering may still be there. The questions may not disappear in a moment. But when Christ opens the Scriptures, he shows us that what seemed meaningless is not meaningless at all.

That is an important lesson for the spiritual life. We often judge too quickly. If life is easy, we think God is near. If life is difficult, we think God is far away. If prayer feels warm, we assume we are growing. If prayer feels dry, we assume we are failing. But the Gospel teaches us to be more patient and more trusting. God can be very near in a season that feels unclear. The risen Christ can be walking beside us even when our eyes are slow to recognize him.

That is really the heart of Emmaus. Jesus was present before they knew he was present. He was already speaking, already guiding, already drawing them forward. Later they would say, “Were not our hearts burning within us?” Grace was already at work before they could explain it.

That is true in our lives as well. Sometimes only later do we realize that the Lord was with us all along. At the time, all we saw was disappointment. Later we begin to understand that he was carrying us, teaching us, and staying closer than we knew.

Then comes that simple and beautiful prayer: “Stay with us.” They still do not understand everything, but they know they do not want him to leave.

That is already real faith. Sometimes prayer is not complicated. Sometimes it is simply this: Stay with me, Lord. Stay with me in this confusion. Stay with me in this grief. Stay with me in this burden. Stay with me when I do not see clearly.

And the Lord answers that prayer. He enters the house. He takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them. Then their eyes are opened.

The Church has always heard something deeply Eucharistic in that moment. On the road, Jesus opens the Scriptures. At the table, he is recognized in the breaking of the bread. Word and Eucharist. Teaching and presence. That is still how he meets us. He speaks, and he stays. He opens the Word, and he gives himself in the Eucharist.

That is why Sunday Mass matters so much. We do not come because every week we feel strong, focused, and ready. We come because we need the risen Lord to meet us again. We need him to speak into our confusion. We need him to feed us with his presence. We need our eyes opened again.

And then notice what happens. Once the disciples recognize him, they rise and return to Jerusalem. Earlier they were walking away in disappointment. Now they go back with new hearts. The road has not changed, but they have. That is one of the clearest signs of Easter. An encounter with the risen Christ may not change every external situation immediately, but it changes the person who has encountered him.

That is where this Gospel becomes very practical. The question is not whether we are walking a perfect road. We are not. The question is whether we are willing to let the risen Lord meet us on the road we are actually walking, with its uncertainty, fatigue, disappointments, and unresolved questions.

That brings us back to Fleming. His point was not that disorder is good in itself, but that the breakthrough came through circumstances that did not look ideal. In much the same way, the Gospel shows us that God can work in the unfinished places of life. The disciples meet Jesus not after the struggle, but in the middle of it. Not when everything makes sense, but while they are still trying to understand.

That is hopeful news for us, because most of life is lived there. We spend much of our time on the road, in the middle of things, carrying hopes, fears, limitations, and responsibilities. Yet the Easter Gospel tells us that none of that places us beyond the reach of Christ. The risen Lord still comes near. He still opens the Scriptures. He still gives himself in the breaking of the bread.

So perhaps the grace of this Sunday is not to ask for a perfect road, but to ask for open eyes. Lord, help me recognize you where I am already walking. Help me trust that even here, in what feels unfinished, you are present.

And maybe that is the prayer we should carry into this week: Stay with us, Lord. Stay with us on the difficult road, until our hearts begin to burn again and our eyes begin to open. Then give us the courage to rise and live as people who know that you are truly alive.