Today, we open with God leading the prophet Ezekiel into a valley full of bones—dry, brittle, lifeless. It is not a subtle image. It is the picture of despair. And God asks Ezekiel a question that feels almost cruel: “Mortal, can these bones live?”

Ezekiel doesn’t pretend to know. He doesn’t offer optimism or cynicism. He simply says, “O Lord God, you know.” It is a statement of humility, but also of trust. Ezekiel is standing in a place where hope seems impossible, and yet he leaves room for God’s generosity.

And then God does what only God can do. God speaks. God breathes. God brings life where life has no business being. “I will put my spirit within you, and you shall live.” The valley of dry bones becomes a place of resurrection.

This is where grateful living begins—not with what we can control, but with what God can breathe. Gratitude grows when we trust that God is still speaking into the dry places of our lives, still breathing into the weary places, still calling us into hope.

Psalm 130 echoes that same longing. “Out of the depths have I called to you, O Lord.” The psalmist is not pretending everything is fine. He is crying from the deep places—places of grief, fear, uncertainty. And yet, even from the depths, he waits with hope. “For with the Lord there is mercy… with him there is plenteous redemption.”

Gratitude doesn’t require us to deny the depths. It invites us to look for God even there.

Paul, in Romans, tells us that the Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in us. Not visits us occasionally. Dwells. Lives. Breathes. The same Spirit who animated the dry bones is at work in our bodies, our minds, our communities. “To set the mind on the Spirit is life and peace,” Paul says. Gratitude helps us do that. It helps us notice the Spirit’s presence. It helps us choose life over fear, peace over anxiety, hope over despair.

And then we come to one of the most tender and powerful stories in John’s Gospel—the raising of Lazarus.

Jesus receives word that his friend is ill, but he delays. By the time he arrives, Lazarus has been dead four days. Martha meets him with a mixture of grief and faith: “Lord, if you had been here…” It is a sentence many of us have prayed. And yet she adds, “But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask.”

Even now.

Even in grief.

Even in disappointment.

Even in the valley of dry bones.

Jesus weeps. He does not rush past the pain. He does not minimize the loss. He stands with Mary and Martha in their grief—and then he calls Lazarus out of the tomb. He speaks life into death. He breathes hope into despair. He shows us that nothing—not even death—is beyond the reach of God’s generosity.

And this is where grateful living becomes more than a practice. It becomes a posture. Gratitude helps us recognize the “even now” moments—moments when God is still at work, still calling us forward, still unbinding us from what holds us back.

And today, we get to witness that breath of God in a very real way as we baptize Ayla.

Baptism is our valley‑of‑dry‑bones moment—except the bones aren’t dry, and the valley isn’t bleak. Baptism is where God breathes life into us from the very beginning. It is where God says, “You are mine. You are beloved. You are part of my story.” It is where the Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead takes up residence in a human life.

When we pour water over Ayla, we are not simply performing a ritual. We are proclaiming that the same Spirit who breathed life into Ezekiel’s valley, the same Spirit who raised Lazarus, the same Spirit Paul says dwells in us—that Spirit is being poured into her life today.

And here’s the beautiful thing: Baptism is not something we grow out of. It is something we grow into. Every day, we learn to live more fully into the identity God gives us in those waters. Every day, we practice grateful living because gratitude is the natural response to grace. Every day, we remember that God’s breath is in us, God’s Spirit is with us, and God’s love surrounds us.

Ayla begins that journey today. And we, as her community, promise to walk it with her.

And speaking of journeys—next Sunday, we enter Holy Week.

Holy Week is not something we watch from a distance. It is something we walk. It is the Church’s way of saying: Come and see. Come and feel. Come and remember. Come and be changed.

Palm Sunday invites us to wave branches and shout “hosanna,” even as we know how quickly the crowd’s mood will shift.

Maundy Thursday invites us to kneel as Jesus kneels, to receive the commandment to love, to watch as he gives himself in bread and wine.

Good Friday invites us to stand at the foot of the cross, to witness a love so deep it refuses to turn away.

And then there is Holy Saturday morning—a brief, quiet, slightly odd service that many people have never experienced. It is a liturgy of waiting. A liturgy of silence. A liturgy that sits between death and resurrection and teaches us how to hope when nothing seems to be happening.

Each of these services is a doorway into the mystery of God’s love. Each one helps us see the story not as something that happened long ago, but as something unfolding in us now. And I want to invite you—warmly, wholeheartedly—to walk that week with us. To let the story shape you. To let the Spirit breathe in you. To let gratitude open your eyes to God’s generosity.

Because the God who raised Lazarus is still calling us out of our tombs.

The God who breathed life into dry bones is still breathing life into us.

The God who meets us in the depths is still lifting us into hope.

And the God who claims Ayla in Baptism today is the same God who leads us toward Easter.

So as we approach Holy Week, may we continue to practice grateful living.

May we look for the Spirit’s breath in unexpected places.

May we trust that God is still speaking life into our valleys.

And may we walk together toward the cross and the empty tomb, knowing that the One who calls us is faithful, generous, and full of life.

Amen.