Reverend Marco Ste-Marie

Love Remembered

Scripture: Luke 24:13–35
Key verse: “Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight.” (v.31)

Walking the Road of Loss

The story opens with two disciples walking toward Emmaus—tired, heartbroken, and unsure of what comes next. They had loved Jesus deeply. They had shared meals, laughter, and hope. Now, after his death, they walk with heavy hearts, retracing steps that once held joy.

Their road is not unlike our own. When we lose someone we love, we too find ourselves walking a road between what was and what will be. It is a road of remembrance and rediscovery, of grief and grace.

This story is not about solving sorrow or erasing loss. It is about recognizing that even in grief, we are not alone. The life we once saw shining before us now flickers quietly within us. What once walked beside us now walks in us.

“They were talking with each other about everything that had happened,” Luke writes. (v.14) That’s what we do in grief—we remember, we replay, we search for meaning. And God meets us there. The disciples’ grief becomes holy ground, the very place where God chooses to walk beside them. So it is with ours. Your grief is not a failure of faith; it is a sacred conversation in which the Divine listens, unseen but near.

The Unrecognized Presence

Luke tells us, “Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him.” (v.15–16)

That line holds such mystery—and such truth. Love often walks beside us unseen.

It is in the smell of a loved one’s cooking,
the melody of a song that carries their memory,
the way sunlight touches the floor just as it did when they were here.

These are not ghosts; they are glimpses of love made visible through memory.
In our grief, we may not recognize the Divine presence at first. But absence does not mean abandonment. Even when unseen, love remains near. God’s companionship often hides within the ordinary until the heart is ready to see.

The Gift of Conversation and Companionship

As the walk continues, Jesus does something beautifully simple—he listens.
He lets the disciples speak their pain aloud. “We had hoped…” they say. (v.21)

Those three words echo across every human heart. We had hoped for one more smile, one more day, one more moment of laughter or forgiveness. We had hoped—that phrase belongs to every mourner.

It is sacred to speak of those we have loved. To tell their story is to keep their love alive. Memory becomes a kind of sacrament, a way love continues to breathe among us.

Notice that Jesus does not rush in with solutions. He does not quote Scripture to fix their sorrow. He listens, and that listening is the miracle. It is what we are called to do for one another—to walk alongside, to listen without needing to mend what cannot be mended.

In every “we had hoped,” God’s compassion waits quietly. And through one another’s company, healing begins—not through answers, but through presence.

The Breaking of Bread: Love Recognized

When the travelers finally reach the table, something shifts.
“He took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them.” (v.30)

It is here—in this humble act of hospitality—that everything becomes clear. The risen Christ is recognized not through power, but through love expressed in the ordinary.

We, too, meet our loved ones in such moments: in a recipe we still cook, in a garden that blooms as they once tended it, in a gesture or kindness they taught us to offer. These small, everyday acts are our own Emmaus tables, where memory becomes revelation.

Love does not announce itself with grandeur—it reveals itself in the breaking and sharing of life’s simple gifts. Every kindness, every shared meal, every word of care becomes a holy remembrance.

“He Vanished from Their Sight”—Yet Still Present

And then—he vanishes. “Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight.” (v.31)

It’s easy to think disappearance means loss. Yet the disciples’ hearts burn with recognition. They are no longer afraid. Though Jesus is gone from sight, they are newly aware of his nearness. Love, once external, has now taken root within them.

This is the rhythm of remembrance.
Those we love are gone, and yet—still here.
Presence changes form, but not reality.
Love does not die; it transforms.

The vanishing is not absence—it is completion. The love that once walked beside us now walks within us. What we once reached for now lives in how we speak, how we forgive, how we love.

From Mourning to Movement

Something beautiful happens next. The disciples, who began the story in sorrow, now rise with purpose: “They got up and returned to Jerusalem.” (v.33)

Love remembered becomes love shared.
They cannot stay still—they must tell the others.
Their grief has been transfigured into energy.

This is what remembrance can do.
It turns mourning into movement.
It transforms memory into mission.

When we remember those who have gone before us, we honour them best by carrying their love into action—through compassion, generosity, creativity, and forgiveness.

All Saints’ Day, then, is not only about who was; it is about who is—still alive in us, still guiding our hands, still shaping our hearts.

Walking Each Other Home

In the end, this story reminds us: none of us walks this road alone.
The love we remember is the love that continues to walk beside us.

Each shared story, each act of kindness, each prayer of gratitude—these are the breaking-of-bread moments when our eyes open once again to love’s living presence.

The Emmaus story is our story—walking, remembering, recognizing, and returning renewed.
Love remembered becomes love recognized.
Love recognized becomes love renewed.
And love renewed keeps us walking—together, always toward light.

May your hearts burn with love remembered,
love recognized, and love renewed.
And as you walk the roads of your own remembering,
may you discover that the Holy Presence
has been walking with you all along.