A Meeting (Among Friends)

Begun at mid morning after many greetings, the silence is at first awkward. Somewhere, a beeping device and then a whisper. Traffic nearby. A train whistle, off in the distance. Another beeping...really? That one is at least outside. Then there is the shifting of human mass upon the benches, the creaking of old wood. It takes good time.

True quiet is difficult to establish, and it's not all their fault. There are too many songs in my head; too many things for my fingers to do; too many reasons not to be quiet. Minutes pass, and then more. The room is a bit warm, so I loosen my shoes and set my feet upon them and find a comfortable posture.

When quiet is finally set among us, there is the wait. Will someone speak? What will they say? No one need speak, actually: we all know what is in our minds after this week. It is written on every face of every color and age.

Light streams in past the clouds and through the skylights, and I have calculated well: it doesn't touch me. It would be too warm, with those ceiling fans off for the sake of the silence. My corner is dark and cool... and comfortable.

After a time, a different tight compels several to stand and speak. You don't need to know what they said; it is for us there, and it is sincere and beautiful. There is perceptible relief when someone speaks... the silence is just too much for most of us; except, perhaps, for a few of the white-haired old Friends who have built up a tolerance for such things.

After the messages, the doors open and a rather beautiful, willowy young lady enters, in a light and flowing dress. She is accompanied by boisterous children. One is not even two feet tall, African in appearance, who flashes the peace sign and scurries to his white guardian. She wears her usual peace shirt. The children disturb the peace, but in the best possible way. 

Then there is the most beautiful occurrence: a very young girl in braids darts into the open space in the center of the room. No one attempts to restrain her. She stands comfortably at the focus of twelve benches facing her, in our circle... or is it more a square? In any case, she drifts around that center, almost dancing, and facing each direction in turn: north, south, east and west, around and around, facing all of us for a little time, like an uninhibited little muse. Then she meanders back to her mother's side. I am sure there is a common sense that we have all witnessed something. 

The Speaker brings this all to a close, and a call to propose a hymn. "There is a Bomb in Gilead," one woman says... or so I heard it. Fortunately, the children distribute hymnals and I see that it is the Balm that is our subject. Our hymn is a familiar old spiritual, and its final verse is special, or at least a bit more special than the rest:

"You don't have to preach like Peter,
You don’t have to pray like Paul;
Just tell the love of Jesus,
And say He died for all."

Finally, we introduce ourselves and make little comments. One woman relates her child's marriage, and the truer friends wave their hands in their charmingly goofy way. For some mystical reason, the introductions always follow a clockwise helical pattern from the back row to the center, like a welcoming maelstrom of friendliness. It ends with the willowy young woman who tended the children. She doesn't seem at all taxed by them.

A few more words and announcements, and that is the conclusion of another meeting. Time for us to stand and shake hands and wander out from whence we came... and wonder what just happened.