Unrecognized

There’s something that keeps bothering me when I read the resurrection stories. Jesus is alive. He’s right there. And the people closest to Him don’t recognize Him.

Mary is standing at the tomb, crying, talking to Jesus face to face—and she thinks He’s the gardener (John 20:14).

The disciples are staring at Him from the boat, exhausted from a long night, and have no idea it’s Him on the shore (John 21:4).

Two friends are walking down the road, pouring their hearts out, processing everything that just went wrong—and Jesus is walking with them, but they don’t know it (Luke 24:15–16).

I used to read those stories and think, How could they not know? This week, I read them and realized, Oh. I do this all the time.

Morning: When Grief and Routine Blur Everything

Mary’s moment happens early. It’s still dark. She’s doing what makes sense—going back to the tomb, revisiting loss, standing in the place where hope died. And when Jesus shows up alive, He doesn’t fit the version of reality she’s prepared for.

That feels painfully familiar.

Most mornings I wake up already carrying something—stress, grief, expectations, to-do lists. I move straight into routine. And when God shows up quietly instead of dramatically, I label Him wrong. I assume it’s just another moment, another task, another interruption.

Sometimes I think I miss Jesus because I’m only looking for Him in big, obvious, “spiritual” places. Meanwhile, He’s standing right in front of me, asking a simple question, waiting for me to slow down enough to actually see Him.

Midday: Tired, Distracted, and Looking the Wrong Way

By the time we get to John 21, the disciples are back at work. Fishing again. Trying to make sense of life after everything they thought they understood fell apart. Jesus is there—but there’s distance. They’re tired. Hungry. Focused on what isn’t working.

That’s my midday faith.

Somewhere between responsibilities and mental overload, my awareness of God gets fuzzy. I still believe He’s there, but I’m not exactly looking anymore. Jesus can be calling out—through a nudge, a need, a moment to trust—and I don’t recognize His voice.

Recognizing the resurrected Jesus in my everyday life isn’t about sharper spiritual vision as much as it is about a slower heart.  A Heart willing to pause, listen, and remain open to the possibility that God is closer than I think.

Evening: Long Walks and Honest Conversations

The road to Emmaus might be the one that hits closest. Two people walking, talking, replaying disappointment. Asking questions. Trying to make sense of loss. And Jesus is right there, listening, explaining, staying with them.

And they still don’t recognize Him.

That one gets me, because it means Jesus can be present even in my doubts, my questions, my processing—and I can still miss Him. I can talk about God, analyze Scripture, replay what went wrong, and not realize God is actually walking with me in it.

It’s not until they stop, sit, and break bread that their eyes open. Not during the discussion. Not during the walk. At the table.

Maybe This Is Just How Resurrection Works

These stories don’t make me feel guilty. They make me feel seen.

Jesus doesn’t seem offended that He isn’t recognized right away. He doesn’t disappear. He stays. He keeps speaking. He keeps walking. He keeps showing up in ordinary ways.

Maybe recognizing the resurrected Jesus in everyday life isn’t about being more spiritually alert or having everything figured out. Maybe it’s about learning to stay open—to the possibility that God is closer than I think, even when I don’t feel it.

Maybe Jesus looks like a gardener.

Or a stranger on the shore.

Or someone walking beside me while I’m distracted by my own thoughts.

And maybe faith isn’t realizing it immediately—but realizing, later on, that He was there the whole time.