This is the season when the death of a loved one is felt all the more keenly but the sense of loss is tempered by precious memories that hint at immortality There is a powerful pathos in the opening lines of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73:That time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. Autumn is heavy with such imagery and recollections. Falling October leaves preach poignant panegyrics as they go. November makes us vulnerable to the ache of a lasting loss. For countless Christians, deep memories of those whose lives “are changed not ended” will soon again be awakened by the perennial feasts of All Saints and All Souls.Of all the memori