One time a man at church told me his daughter in Chicago was living intentionally. Years later, I still think about that intentional woman, and I like to imagine her life, how she plans out every day and then executes that plan. She only does things she intends to do, never anything she does not intend to do. When she goes to the market she does not forget the chives and cheddar on her list. She never wastes time, never gets lost, never misplaces her daughter’s Christmas present, never bungles her son’s haircut.
For me, being born was unintentional, and I have never really gotten back on track. Last May I messed up my son’s haircut, and on the way to Great Clips we drove past a lady holding up a sign that said “PUPPIES,” so we stopped just to look, and we adopted a French bulldog, a neutron star of a dog: of small radius and high density. As soon as we got him home, he fell off the deck, broke his leg, and had to have a $4,700 surgery. The road to Great Clips, like the road to Emmaus, is full of curve balls.
Cleopas and his companion expected Jesus to redeem Israel, but he died. Then they expected him to be in his tomb, but others found him gone—they heard there were angels at the tomb. The “stranger” who comes to them turns out to be Jesus, and then the minute they recognize him, he vanishes. Whammy, whiplash!
