Hello, Friends,    

Life is nothing if not a mystery, in more ways than we can count or describe.  Today, as many of you already know, my family is in the midst of engaging what is perhaps the deepest mystery of all—what it means to die, to accept death as part of life, and to ponder what remains. 
     What remains is loss, of course—the precious, priceless, uniquely Tracy Currie-shaped space in creation that is now bereft of his physical presence.  My dad has died, and that’s just the way it is.  From a daughter’s point of view I mostly feel orphaned today, knowing there were two people on the planet for whom I would always be the beloved daughter, the one my dad always called “Doll,” and they are gone. 
     Our kids and their kids know there won’t be any more grandfatherly doting attention from one who thought they were just wonderful and practically perfect, no matter what.
    My husband will miss the quiet, manly company of times with Tracy, the guy who loved sharing a beverage and easy conversation, and who never failed to listen well, and offer encouragement and support.
    And God only knows how many ways he’s been missed already, and will be missed, by others whose lives his has touched.
     Nothing can change or ameliorate that emptiness, that sense of loss; nor should we wish anything to lessen or lighten this part of time after a loved one’s death.  After all, isn’t the sense of lack an affirmation that there was someone worth missing whose life meant something, and whose absence also has meaning?
     Didn’t Jesus try to teach his friends about that part of the mystery…”in a little while you will no longer see me, … and where I am going you cannot follow.”
     And doesn’t this beautiful and now gloriously blooming Eastertide remind us of our hearts’ dearest hope, and our faith’s truest claim— that Death isn’t the end of the story at all, but a new chapter in a glorious, enduringly creative journey in God’s Love?
    I’m sad.  I’m grieving.  I’m lonely. All true.   And I’m also grateful, and glad, and aware of being accompanied and sustained
by Grace, in so many forms—in the flowers, in the friends, in the sweet members of this faith community who continue to care, and show that they do, in the songs and signs of Resurrection life that bathe my grief, today, with beauty, with Truth, with hope for Love’s enduring Spirit.
     I’ll miss you this coming Sunday, and I’ll remember you in my prayers. Please remember me and mine, too --and I’ll look forward to moving through the mystery and dancing in Easter light with you next week, and all our days to come.
    I love you all.

Shalom,
Sarah