tumble forth, meaningless.
Where to begin? She had been so unremarkable since awakening on the morn of our holiest day. Polly, the new believer, of course. Clothed in the borrowed dress of a backslider—one who has forsaken us to rejoin the World—she said nothing as we readied ourselves to take part in the Sabbath Day Meeting. From our neckerchiefs to the soft shoes we wear to dance, we sought to make ourselves a perfect reflection of Mother Ann’s way. Throughout, she watched then copied my every move, though she hardly seemed present. Indeed, as we walked side by side into the sisters’ entryway, I had the feeling that she might float away, like fluff from a dandelion. In the vestibule, there was the usual swish of cloaks being hung and bonnets made loose, for the start of every Meeting is hectic however obediently we try to keep order. The new believer’s presence caused me to ponder the strange, small ways in which we begin to abandon ourselves before worship. Perhaps we are preparing, in some unknowing fashion, for the wondrous disorientation visited upon us by divine spirits. Perhaps it is nothing more than the shedding of encumbrances on a cold day. All the same, peace won out eventually as we took our places in the large meetinghouse hall, where the sisters and brethren settled themselves in several lines on opposite sides of the room.
I motioned that my charge should bow her head as Elder Brother Caleb read his sermon. How strange to think back upon it now. That I told her how to worship! But what did I know of her then? Only that she might need instruction, like so many new girls, and that I was the one to give it. We bent our heads before our elder, who did not presume to offer his own thoughts as do so many ministers in the churches of the World, but trusted instead that the Bible was the last and only Word, and was thus without need of prideful elaboration.
Still, I will whisper here that I sometimes find myself wishing for the last and only Word to make good on the promise of its description, and pass quickly so that we might begin our dances. For the past week, we had gathered every evening after dinner in the North Family dwelling house to learn the steps of a new labor, one that had been seen by a Visionist at Canterbury and brought to us by a visiting minister. Its movements were simple and beautiful in the humility they showed before Mother. We bowed, we turned, we reached our hands aloft to receive her blessing, then swung them low to spread her Word. We danced and were made glad.
Brother Caleb ended his sermon and we began, bending down and lowering ourselves again and again—first the sisters, then the brethren, faster and faster until the room appeared to rise and fall like waves upon the sea. Our breath came quicker, too, our faces filled with the pure joy one feels when caught up in the fullness of worship. We smiled—why, some were even taken with what we call the Laughing Gift, their merriment catching everyone up in its sway. Before long, the hall rang with such mirth that it was impossible to imagine that any spirit—divine or otherwise—could be oblivious to our elation.
Then we set to circling, sisters holding hands and turning in the center, brethren to the outside. We circled to the right—never left, the way of the Devil—faster and faster. After many revolutions, we became so dizzy that when we let go of one another’s hands, we each stumbled in place, falling this way and that like lost souls. In this manner, we celebrated the strength we show in union, all joined together, all moving in the same direction. And we showed the waywardness and confusion of a believer left unto himself.
But even the most inspiring dance must come to an end at some point, and as our heads cleared and the dizziness left us, we formed lines again and began slowly marching in place. It was then that I heard our labors to be accompanied by a strange noise, a moan so mournful and otherworldly that I
Where to begin? She had been so unremarkable since awakening on the morn of our holiest day. Polly, the new believer, of course. Clothed in the borrowed dress of a backslider—one who has forsaken us to rejoin the World—she said nothing as we readied ourselves to take part in the Sabbath Day Meeting. From our neckerchiefs to the soft shoes we wear to dance, we sought to make ourselves a perfect reflection of Mother Ann’s way. Throughout, she watched then copied my every move, though she hardly seemed present. Indeed, as we walked side by side into the sisters’ entryway, I had the feeling that she might float away, like fluff from a dandelion. In the vestibule, there was the usual swish of cloaks being hung and bonnets made loose, for the start of every Meeting is hectic however obediently we try to keep order. The new believer’s presence caused me to ponder the strange, small ways in which we begin to abandon ourselves before worship. Perhaps we are preparing, in some unknowing fashion, for the wondrous disorientation visited upon us by divine spirits. Perhaps it is nothing more than the shedding of encumbrances on a cold day. All the same, peace won out eventually as we took our places in the large meetinghouse hall, where the sisters and brethren settled themselves in several lines on opposite sides of the room.
I motioned that my charge should bow her head as Elder Brother Caleb read his sermon. How strange to think back upon it now. That I told her how to worship! But what did I know of her then? Only that she might need instruction, like so many new girls, and that I was the one to give it. We bent our heads before our elder, who did not presume to offer his own thoughts as do so many ministers in the churches of the World, but trusted instead that the Bible was the last and only Word, and was thus without need of prideful elaboration.
Still, I will whisper here that I sometimes find myself wishing for the last and only Word to make good on the promise of its description, and pass quickly so that we might begin our dances. For the past week, we had gathered every evening after dinner in the North Family dwelling house to learn the steps of a new labor, one that had been seen by a Visionist at Canterbury and brought to us by a visiting minister. Its movements were simple and beautiful in the humility they showed before Mother. We bowed, we turned, we reached our hands aloft to receive her blessing, then swung them low to spread her Word. We danced and were made glad.
Brother Caleb ended his sermon and we began, bending down and lowering ourselves again and again—first the sisters, then the brethren, faster and faster until the room appeared to rise and fall like waves upon the sea. Our breath came quicker, too, our faces filled with the pure joy one feels when caught up in the fullness of worship. We smiled—why, some were even taken with what we call the Laughing Gift, their merriment catching everyone up in its sway. Before long, the hall rang with such mirth that it was impossible to imagine that any spirit—divine or otherwise—could be oblivious to our elation.
Then we set to circling, sisters holding hands and turning in the center, brethren to the outside. We circled to the right—never left, the way of the Devil—faster and faster. After many revolutions, we became so dizzy that when we let go of one another’s hands, we each stumbled in place, falling this way and that like lost souls. In this manner, we celebrated the strength we show in union, all joined together, all moving in the same direction. And we showed the waywardness and confusion of a believer left unto himself.
But even the most inspiring dance must come to an end at some point, and as our heads cleared and the dizziness left us, we formed lines again and began slowly marching in place. It was then that I heard our labors to be accompanied by a strange noise, a moan so mournful and otherworldly that I
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