In Lent the brass urns on the retable hold bare sticks and stark leaves. But we see blossoms this day. How can this be? We have gathered together because of a death, yet we will sing Alleluia before this morning is over. Why would we do such a thing? Our very faith is based on one who died a difficult death, on a hard wooden cross, seemingly abandoned by everyone, even God. What kind of faith is this?

Night is followed by day. Cold bare branches produce buds as the seasons change. A cross and a tomb turn out to be the midwives of resurrection rather than markers of the end.

And these midwives are still at work. We are delivered, out of death into life, because Christ was delivered from the darkness of the tomb into the light of day. Eleanor will go down to the grave but she, too, will rise again. This is the promise of God, a promise that can be read in bare branches, heard on the lips of children and held fast in our hearts.

But why do we encounter such loss and pain in this life. Doesn't God care that we are perishing under the burden of such things? Yes, God cares. God cares enough, in the fullness of time to lift all things unto Himself. We are mortal and subject to all manner of frailties, the length of our days is unknown to us, until they end. And although we appear to be perishing in our disease, or pain, or fear, or anger we are in fact already rescued from the power of sin and death. The ones we love and have lost are already lifted, and bathed in that light that never ends, and warmed by that love that shines on them and on us even now. In God there is no end, no separation, only a veil waiting to be lifted.

The truth is that all lives hold sorrow and joy, times of relative ease and moments of agony. The truth is that we will enjoy bursts of graceful illumination and knowing beyond our ability to speak of it, and yet still have to bear impenetrable mysteries that wound us whenever we attempt to grasp or unravel them.

Peaks of glory are part of a landscape that includes the valley of the shadow of death. But the way of the Cross is also the way of life. We have heard this in Scripture. Our challenge is to embrace it and to believe it.

The readings this morning stretch from Lamentations to Good News. We have heard that suffering happens but joy comes in the morning, that in rising we are saved. We have heard that love is not only expansive, but eternal. And lest we think this is only a word for others, Jesus himself spoke of many rooms and of going ahead to prepare for us.

Can we see that the way is traced in twin lines of golden light and deep blood red? These lines are not like lines on a map but more like illuminated letters in a sonnet that sings of love and points to the beloved.

This sonnet, this song of glory, is meant to hold the stories of the life of the faithful. It is right to speak of Eleanor even as we sing of God's promises. We see the reflections of Christ's love and light in the shape of Eleanor's life. Look and see her willingness to step forward, to volunteer to come to the aid of others. Regard the care that Eleanor extended to those who needed presence and support- not just in a caring instant but in the act of moving to Florida in order to care for a relative. Eleanor dealt with shadows, we all do, but she also sought beauty and truth in the artistic work she did. There are things one can only say in pigment or in clay, for our hands can sometimes articulate what our lips cannot.

on stormy seas alone. We do not walk through the valley of shadows by ourselves. We are not abandoned, no matter how we may be feeling in the moment. Even Christ's cry of "why have you forsaken me?" was answered by the sign of God's faithfulness. The stone was rolled away from the tomb. Death was conquered. We, and those we love, were saved.

Light returns like spring after winter, Easter after Lent, and the bare sticks that will bud and become flowers in those rooms yet to come.
AMEN