But she was pretty certain that all the broken dreams were hers alone. There was no mending them she thought, but she also couldn't bear to let them go. So the basement had slowly filled with sorrow. Memories were pressed together and tied tight like newspapers toothlessly mouthing headlines decades old. The people passing in front of the house on the street everyday knew nothing of all of this. They had not asked. Nor had they come to find her as she slowly disappeared from their common life. She was like a swimmer whose strength comes to an end just as everyone on the beach is caught up with moving their towels or getting another sandwich.

There were four deadbolt locks on her front door. One more than she had installed on the door that led to the basement. She told herself that all the locks were there because the neighborhood had changed. Things were more dangerous than in her youth, she told herself. You never knew who might come through the door. It was better to be safe. She had been so safe that no one had entered her house for over ten years.

The changes in the neighborhood had been slow, and mostly benign, but she was so out of step with the world, so disconnected that even the sliver of it she saw through the peep hole terrified her. When the market delivered her weekly box of groceries she could barely even stand near the door. The mere presence of another person sometimes seemed like a fire on the other side. The heat kept her at a distance.

She did not seek the light shining off the face of the person who brought her groceries. She would only sneak a brief glance through the peep hole when she judged the delivery man had already turned his back and was halfway to the truck. When the market wrote later that week to say that the man who delivered her groceries had died suddenly of a heart attack, she realized that she had never even known his name.

It was days later when she reflected on the event again. She had not always been this way. It was a long slow series of movements, like some flower closing in on itself as day moved toward evening. But in the fading light of her living room, in the fading years of her life she thought morosely of how all flowers wilted, then bowed slowly lower, before dropping to the ground and being swallowed by the earth from which they came.

Her reverie was broken by a knock on the door. She froze. There was an extended silence. Then another knock. It was not loud or aggressive, simply a signal of presence. This second knock was followed by a voice. "Mrs. Harmon, this is Alejandro from the market. I'm the new driver. I'm putting your groceries by the door. Peace. I'll be back next week." She sat still holding her breath until she could not hear any footsteps. When the motor sound increased in pitch she knew he was driving away, and she inhaled. It took several minutes for her to stand. Then several more to walk to the door. It was the better part of an hour before she pulled the groceries in with one hand and snapped the door shut, clicking the deadbolts one after another without pausing. They sounded like gunshots.

When she got to the kitchen she noticed there was a note in the box. There had never been a note before, just a receipt. There was a receipt this time too, but also the note. "Mrs. Harmon", it read, "the light coming through the trees was so beautiful when I drove up to your house that the blossoms looked like fire or gold. I would never break even a small branch on someone else's property, but this one had fallen to the ground. I thought you might like it."

There was a letter "A" at the bottom of the note. She traced its shape tentatively with her fingernail. Then she looked in the bags. On top of a loaf of bread was a sprig from a flowering tree. She sucked in her breath in surprise - the color was so bright, even in the curtained kitchen. There was a fragrance rising from the branch in her hand. It seemed both strange and familiar. This beautiful thing was from her yard? She cast her mind back - as the redolent perfume filled the kitchen -what tree had it come from?

Then she remembered. She and her husband had planted it years ago before he died. It had been a warm day filled with warm feelings. The memory was tender like the first tiny green leaves that come in spring at the end of a long dark winter. Color and light begin to rise up through the black and white and gray of a season that seems like it will never end. The corners of her lips turned up slightly as she put the flowering branch into the top of an empty wine bottle. It was Thursday.

By Tuesday she began to anticipate the next grocery delivery. She had plenty of food, it was something else she was seeking. She had mailed a note to the market - the phone was disconnected years ago - "please send a simple glass vase along with the regular order." A wine bottle just didn't seem right for such beauty. She hoped the flowering branch would last until the vase came. But even now there were petals all around the base of the bottle and pollen had painted a ragged circle on the table cloth.

On Thursday she rose a little earlier than usual. When the delivery came she was already in the small living room. She had moved the flowering branch from the kitchen to the table next to her chair. She could see the door over the last of its fading blossoms. She did not jump when the knock came- at least not too much. She had heard his footsteps coming this time even over the sound of her own breathing.

She was glad, could that be, yes, she was glad to hear the knock. "Mrs. Harmon, it's Alejandro, good morning." She leaned toward the door and her lips parted, for the space of one deep breath - but no sound emerged. "Mrs. Harmon, I have your groceries and your vase here. You're my first stop so I asked Mr. Wallace at the market if I could bring some of the extra daffodils. We got a double order by mistake and the distributor said just keep 'em. They would have wilted in the storage room before we could sell them all. Its a free gift, Mrs. Harmon. They're so beautiful. Do you want some to put in your vase?"

She sat in the silence and thought of what was locked in the basement. She remembered the dying flowers in the wine bottle by her side. Then she remembered the story of another locked door that her childhood Sunday School teacher had told her. She remembered. Then she stood.

"Yes," she said in a strong, clear voice, and she walked towards the locks with her hand outstretched and she thought of her son and she wanted to see the color of Alejandro's eyes and the flowering tree blooming in her yard behind him.

There are many stories of locked doors that prove to be no obstacle to the power of love. Some of these stories are written in the Gospel according to John. But even in that Gospel it says that the work of Christ is voluminous and cannot be contained. The world itself could not hold all the books that would be written if every act were captured in print and bound between two covers.

We are the spiritual kin of Mrs. Harmon. We have our own cluttered basements- our fears, our regrets and our difficult memories but also the same opportunity she had. When a stranger comes to the door and knocks gently, we can remember that in the right light flowers will look like fire or gold and that love can come delivered in a cardboard box.

We are also the brothers and sisters of Alejandro. His name means "helper of mankind", yet he did nothing superhuman. His compassionate acts and his willingness to connect with Mrs. Harmon were something any of us could do - if we choose to. In those simple acts of offering a few words and a handful of flowers Alejandro made the love of Christ visible even through a locked door. In that light resurrection became believable to Mrs. Harmon, not just as a Sunday School story but in her own house - in her own life, in her own body.

Finally, we are the spiritual descendants of the disciples - all of them, including Thomas. The doors we bolt shut are no barrier to Christ. Christ moves through them to offer us the same peace he offered them. Even if we arrive late on the scene or miss some powerful display seen by others, we have been commissioned by our baptism and empowered by the breath of the Spirit to do Christ's work of reconciliation in the work.

Alejandro encountered Mrs. Harmon as his began his daily route. We will encounter people as we move through our days. Then we choose whether we will deliver the love of Christ by extending ourselves for the benefit of others, or if we will simply move past them on the way to our next achievement or amusment.

We have neighbors and friends who are hurting, families that struggle nearby. We also have people we see from afar but whose needs have become known to us. Even a broken branch is a meaningful gift when we call someone by name and offer what we can. Christ came to offer relationship and presence and through these things community and communion with God. This is our work too.

Whether it is raising funds for a water project in Honduras or sending bread to a stranger in the neighborhood we are pointing to the love that looks like gold or fire. We are hoping that doors will open. And whoever opens the door, let us strive to seek and serve Christ in them when they do.
AMEN.