Chavurat Derekh HaMashiach

”Alright so let me tell you what’s going on because apparently I’m the only one around here who keeps proper records of our adventures. Dad’s a traveling theologen (that means he talks about God a lot and people actually want to listen) and a nomadic Messianic Bible teacher, which means everywhere we go humans walk up to him like “Hey I got a question about the Bible” or “Hey can you explain this verse” or sometimes “Hey nice dog,” which is obviously about me because I am the star of this ministry. And Dad writes blog posts too, which I assume are long letters to the internet about our adventures, Torah stuff, and whatever deep thoughts he has while I’m trying to nap. Anyway we started this whole journey way back in Washington state where the roads were windy and twisty and made my ears flap like I was trying to take off. Dad said “hang on buddy” and I did because I am a responsible co‑pilot even though I don’t have thumbs. After that it was long stretches of flat highways, the kind where you can smell a truck stop from three miles away. We stayed at a couple casinos—those places smell like chicken wings, old carpet, and humans making questionable decisions. Dad won a little money. I won the attention of several strangers who told me I was handsome. Then there were the Love’s truck stops, my personal kingdom. Every time we pulled in I thought “Ah yes, my people.” I made friends with truckers, dogs, and one lady who smelled like cinnamon rolls. We hit an occasional rest area too, where raccoons tried to challenge me but I stared them down because I am brave and also Dad had snacks. We visited friends in Alabama and Georgia—lots of porches, lots of dogs, lots of humans who said “well ain’t he somethin’,” which I assume is a compliment. Then we got to Florida where Dad parked in family driveways and I got to hang out with my grandson. Yes MY grandson. He is small, sticky, and fast, and I love him. Dad spent a couple weeks with his son and family in Jacksonville while I supervised everything like the professional I am. Now we’re in Spring Hill in the Tampa area, parked in a friend’s driveway with a drop cord plugged in charging our power station like it’s drinking from a magical electricity hose. I love driveways. Driveways mean snacks, belly rubs, and Dad not muttering about battery levels. And everywhere we go—truck stops, driveways, parking lots, even rest areas—people walk up to Dad to talk about Bible stuff or just everyday things like weather, life, or how handsome I am. Dad listens, teaches, encourages, and sometimes prays with them. I sit there looking wise because that’s my role in this ministry. I’ve made friends too—dogs, humans, one cat who tolerated me for four seconds, and a toddler who tried to ride me like a horse. Dad said no. I said maybe. Now we’re getting ready to head to Patrick Air Base (I like military bases, they have grass and geese, though geese are rude) and then on to LiftOff Van Fest in Melbourne where I plan to make new friends, steal attention, and maybe convince someone to drop a hot dog. So that’s the update. The road is long, the smells are good, Dad teaches people about God, I make friends everywhere, and as long as we keep parking in places with snacks and electricity, I’m living my best three‑legged life.

End of report. Tail wag included.