Can I tell you about three men who should have smelled terrible?

Picture it. Babylon, circa 600 B.C. King Nebuchadnezzar has erected a golden image ninety feet tall and commanded every living soul at the ceremony to bow down and worship it. The penalty for non-compliance? A furnace. 

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego refused to bow.

So, they were hauled before the king and given one last chance to comply. When they politely declined, with what I can only imagine was the most serene look on their faces, they were bound and thrown into that furnace. It was so hot that the soldiers who threw them in were killed just by getting near the opening. The flames swallowed those three faithful men whole.

And then... nothing.

Well, not nothing. Nebuchadnezzar leaped to his feet in a panic. "Did we not cast three men bound into the midst of the fire?" His advisors confirmed it.

In Acts 1, after Jesus was taken up, the disciples stood there staring into heaven until the angels asked, "Ye men of Galilee, why stand ye gazing up into heaven?" The angels went on to say, "this same Jesus, which is taken up from you into heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him go into heaven." Luke 24:49 also shows that this was not the end of their journey because Jesus had already told them to wait until they were "endued with power from on high."

I can just picture it. One minute, they're standing on the mount with Jesus. The next, He's gone into the clouds, and they're all doing the first-century version of standing in the grocery store parking lot asking, "Now what?" No five-step plan. No laminated ministry packet. No "Disciples' Guide to What to Do After the Ascension." Just a sky full of clouds and a heart full of questions.

Honestly, I can relate.

I have a confession to make: I am afraid of things that don't exist.

Not ghosts or monsters under the bed. I outgrew those...mostly. No, I'm talking about the imaginary monsters I construct out of thin air whenever I face a new deadline, a hard conversation, or an unexpected season of life. I can build something terrifying out of nothing, and sadly, I'm quite good at it.

Turns out, I'm in good company. Not just with other anxious humans, but with ancient settlers who looked up into the twilight sky and panicked over a little bird called the nighthawk.

By name alone, the nighthawk sounds ferocious. Something with hawk in the title ought to have razor-sharp talons, a hooked beak, and zero patience for your nonsense. Early observers watched it swooping through the dusk and slapped the most fearful label they could find on it: Hawk. Done.

The terror only grew worse from there.

Recently, Jason and I took a trip to Corby, England, to fill in for a pastor over the weekend. On the way, we dropped Tess off with a friend. I expected at least a little hesitation. You know, a cautious sniff, a glance back over the shoulder, maybe a dramatic "Mamma, how could you?" sort of look.

Nope.

Our friend opened the door, and Tess walked right in as if she paid the mortgage.

She didn't stand on the porch wondering if she was welcome. She didn't wait for a second invitation. She didn't ask if she was interrupting anything. She just trotted in, looked around, and started making herself at home. Meanwhile, I stood there thinking, Well, apparently she's settled. Glad we cleared that up.

As funny as it was, the whole thing stirred something in my heart when I realized that Tess did what many of us struggle to do spiritually. She walked in as if she belonged there.

One of the hardest conversations I've had recently was with a woman who had been deeply hurt by someone she loved. The betrayal was real. The pain was justified. And when I gently suggested that forgiveness might be part of her healing journey, she looked at me with exhaustion and said, "But they've never apologized. They've never acknowledged what they did. How can I forgive someone who doesn't even think they've done anything wrong?"

That question haunts me because it's so honest. It reveals the confusion we've created around forgiveness. The idea that forgiveness requires reconciliation. That it demands the other person's participation. That it can't happen unless we're both willing to work toward restoration.

But that's not what biblical forgiveness actually is.

We've tangled two separate things together: forgiveness and reconciliation. They sound similar. They're often discussed in the same breath. But they're not the same thing at all, and understanding the difference might be the key that unlocks our freedom.

Okay, real talk. Easter Sunday has come and gone. The ham has been eaten, the Easter lilies are wilting on the windowsill, and the chocolate eggs are gone (or maybe that's just at my house). The decorations are back in the bin, and life has rudely resumed its regularly scheduled programming, complete with the bills, the aches, the worries, and that one news headline that makes you want to go back to bed and pull the covers over your head.

And somewhere in the middle of all that ordinary Monday-ness, you might be wondering: Was Easter just a Sunday? Or does it mean something for right now, when my circumstances are anything but hopeful?

Oh, friend. Peter has something to say about that.

The Apostle Peter wasn't writing from a cozy armchair. He was writing to believers who were scattered, suffering, and facing very real persecution.

I want you to do something for me. Close your eyes for a moment and imagine it's the darkest stretch of days the world has ever known. The sky went black in the middle of the afternoon. The earth shook. The temple veil ripped right down the middle. And the Man they had called the Son of God took His last breath on a Roman cross.

The days that followed were devastating. The disciples huddled together in a locked room, trembling behind closed doors. Peter was a wreck. John had nothing to say. The women were weeping. And two shell-shocked followers shuffling down the road to Emmaus were kicking the dust with heavy feet and mumbling to each other about how they had hoped He was the One. Past tense. Had hoped.

They had followed Him. Believed in Him. Left everything for Him. And now He was dead, sealed behind a borrowed stone, and their hope was buried right along with Him.

It started with palm branches and praise.

"Hosanna! Blessed is the King of Israel!" The crowd was electric. People threw their coats on the road, waved branches, and shouted themselves hoarse. If you'd been standing in that crowd on Palm Sunday, you might have thought, This is it. The revolution is here. And honestly? That's exactly what they thought, too.

The same people who had been groaning under Roman rule for generations finally saw their moment. Jesus was riding in. A miracle worker. A man who had raised the dead, fed thousands with a few fish sandwiches, and made blind men see. If anyone could overthrow Caesar's grip, surely it was Him!

And then... He didn't.

No armies. No swords drawn. No Roman soldiers sent running. Just Jesus weeping over the city, turning over tables in the temple, and talking about things like eternal life and the kingdom of Heaven. Not quite the battle plan they had in mind.

There I was, Bible open, pen in hand. With Tess snoring in her bed beside me, I was minding my own business and reading about the importance of tuning out the world to tune in to God. Very spiritual. Very focused. Very... interrupted.

Before the ink was dry on that thought, Tess launched off the floor like a furry little missile. She pressed her nose against the window and barked at some unsuspecting soul walking down the road as if the fate of the free world depended on it. Then, as if that weren't enough, she bolted from the office. Unfortunately, she pushed the office door wide open in her dramatic exit, which meant I could now enjoy the full orchestra of household chaos. Both the washing machine and the dishwasher roared directly across the hall. And Jason was happily clanging around in the kitchen.

I want to tell you something about greyhounds that sounds completely impossible until you see it for yourself.

When a greyhound runs at full speed, it uses what scientists call a double suspension gallop. What that means in plain English is this: twice during every stride, all four of the greyhound's feet leave the ground at the same time. Not once. Twice. In fact, when a greyhound is running full out, it spends roughly 75% of its time completely airborne. That elegant, flying creature is, at any given moment, more likely to be in the air than on the ground.

Think about that for a second.

For a greyhound, losing contact with the ground is not a crisis. It is not a catastrophe. It is not even a stumble. It is simply how the greyhound moves forward.