The Great Adventure:

[p 135]

Chapter 40
Pilgrimage

Following appointment as Auxiliary Board member I embarked on what soon appeared to be a continual journey, west from Central United States and Canada to the Pacific Coast, north-south from Alaska and Canada's Northwest Territories to the Mexican border, this travel interspersed with once-in-awhile visits to the Atlantic Coast and Deep South. Somehow during the northern back-and-forth journeys I seemed always to be landing somewhere in Montana; one of those stops had a pro≠found and enduring effect upon my life.

One winter afternoon in Billings, Montana, a local Baha'i and I stopped for refreshment at a coffee shop. There we encountered a Dr. Milani, member of a distinguished Persian Baha'i family, and I as introduced to him. As we chatted I learned that his elder brother had, by request of 'Abdu'l-Baha, served as aide to the youthful Shoghi Effendi while the latter was an Oxford University student.

As we sipped coffee Dr. Milani enchanted me with stories about the Guardian, when suddenly he said, "Of course you have been on pilgrimage to the Holy Land and have yourself met the Guardian."

"No. Not yet."

He focused a stern eye on me and demanded, "Why haven't you? You are an Auxiliary Board member, speaking to Baha'is all over the country, so why haven't you?"

"A trip to the Holy Land costs a great deal. I haven't had the money."

His severe expression switched into shocked despair. "How can you offer such an excuse! Money--what is mere money when deep desire is at stake? Where is your faith? Listen to me! Seriously! You must write at once to the Guardian requesting a pilgrimage. If the Guardian answers no, then it is not the time, and no blame to you. But if he gives permission, be confident that money will be provided, somehow the way will open. For your sake you must do this? Will you?"

I nodded, excited yet doubtful. It was rather like promising to walk on water with no water in sight.

Back home again, I reported to David Dr. Milani's advice. David said, "Why not give it a try? We don't have the money but who knows? The Doctor may be right, and the money will show up."

My request for pilgrimage left in next day's mail.

In early January 1956 a cable arrived from Haifa, Israel, "WILL INFORM DATE PILGRIMAGE MUCH LATER--SHOGHI"

"Later is good," commented David. "We still don't have the money, and building construction is slow in winter."

Months passed. Then in October a second cable arrived. "WELCOME PILGRIMAGE FOURTH WEEK NOVEMBER."

"Building has picked up this fall, so this is fine, arrange your ticket," David told me.

But almost immediately the Suez-Sinai War erupted between Egypt and Israel resulting in cancellation of travel in that area by American citizens. I was desolated. Such a trick of Fate, my dream-of-dreams suddenly granted, then as abruptly snatched away. In a last try I consulted with the Israeli Consul in Los Angeles, hoping a religious pilgrimage could be exempted. The Consul, sympathetic, commiserated with me but said he could do nothing since the restriction was not Israel's but that of my own government. "But what a pity not to see those lovely Baha'i gardens, they are the most beautiful gardens in all the world. I know, for I travel much throughout the world and make it a point to visit the gardens of a nation, gardens are my hobby, so I consider myself [p 136] rather an authority. Each time I return to Israel I drive to Haifa to be refreshed by the peace and beauty of those exquisite spots."

I struggled to squeeze back tears. So near, and yet so far.

November, December, January, and part of February went by. Still no release for American travel in the Middle East. As I left home on a Northwest trip David said, "If travel to Israel opens soon, better hold off on a request to renew your pilgrimage. Business has slowed again. Next fall would be better."

I promised not to renew the request.

That early spring I was in Yakima, Washington, dressing for an evening meeting, when the telephone rang in my hotel room. It was David. He said, "A cable just arrived from the Holy Land. It says you can go on pilgrimage the last part of April. Perhaps you've seen in the newspapers that travel restrictions to Israel are lifted."

"Yes, I did. But David, honestly, I didn't request a pilgrimage renewal, I promised you, and I didn't. So send a cable, ask if I can come at a later time--"

"Hush!" David said. "I know you didn't, that's not what I want to talk to you about. I want you to cancel the rest of the trip you're on and hurry home to arrange your flight, you haven't much time."

"But you haven't the money, we can't afford it."

"Listen to me! Come home and worry about getting your passport and ticket, I'll do the worrying about the money. If you don't go now, who knows, you might never meet the Guardian."

I was joyously obedient. And about the money, Dr. Milani turned out to be right. Unexpectedly large orders for building materials came into our office and David was able to pay cash for the ticket, plus ample travel funds. No guarantee this would happen in every case but, cross my heart, it did that time.

On the plane from Rome into Tel Aviv I was seated behind a family group of Persians (I recognized a few words of their animated conversation). The group was composed of a rather elderly father, a young woman possibly his daughter and a young man, either her husband or boyfriend. The woman and young man certainly were not shy, constantly bending over the seat-back between them to embrace, kiss each other ecstatically on both cheeks, fall back in the seats, laugh, talk to father who smiled fondly at them, leap up and kiss again, all through the journey.

It was dark when we arrived at Tel Aviv, and war conditions still tensed Israel. Armed soldiers lined our path into the airport, the girl soldiers' voices stern as they guided us. On the way the young woman, my fellow passenger who had done all that kissing, was just ahead of me. Suddenly she turned, pointed at me, asked in heavy accent, "Bahoy?"

I pointed at my own chest. "Yes, Baha'i, you Baha'i?"

She flung herself into my arms, kissed my cheeks, lifted my hand, pointed at my ring which bore the Baha'i insignia. She cried ecstatically to her two male companions, "She is Bahoy!" To me, "My husband, my son, all Pilgrims!" No wonder that kissing had been so unrestrained.

The four of us quickly decided we could not wait for morning to reach Haifa, and hired a taxi to drive us that night to the northern coastal city. Already after ten, we would arrive after midnight.

The taxi windows were down, the scented warm air of this unseen countryside reminiscent to me of mid-California. The jolly taxi driver entertained us with admiring stories of the many Baha'is from all over the world he had driven from the airport to Haifa's Pilgrim Houses. "I am well acquainted with those Baha'is in charge of your buildings and gardens," he boasted. "Many times I speak with them, so do not worry about arriving late, I will explain the plane was delayed." [p 137]

If I had been aware that night of the precise rules applying to the pilgrimage, I would have demanded to return to Tel Aviv to await morning. The rule was for a pilgrim to spend only nine days in Haifa, the day beginning at midnight. By the mercy of fate our group of four did not reach Haifa until almost 12:30 A.M., otherwise my precious nine-day stay would have been cut to eight.

Despite the jolly talkativeness of our driver, the trip seemed interminable. But at last the darker outlines of Mount Carmel could be discerned against the less dense blue-black sky. I strained to pierce the darkness, yearning for a glimpse of the golden dome of the shrine of the Bab, the Herald Prophet. But the building was not illumined, the blanket of night too heavy.

We wound up Mount Carmel, turned down a driveway, stopped before the door of the Eastern Pilgrim House, where my new Persian friends bade me an affectionate goodnight. Then the taxi wound back down the mountain to park beside the large stone structure that was the Western Pilgrim House. "{Geveret}, please to wait in the car," the driver instructed, "I will prepare the way for you."

My heart palpitated. Was the hour too late, had I been neglectful of necessary formality?

The stocky driver rang the door bell. The large entrance door opened a crack and two female heads peered out, one above, one below. That latter head turned out to belong to the tiny, less than five feet tall, Jessie Revell then serving as International Treasurer for the Baha'i Faith. The second head belonged to Isobel Sabri, an American married to an Egyptian Baha'i, who with their young children were pioneering in Africa.

The door was flung wide, I hurried to it, was embraced, the driver paid and thanked, and the door closed behind me. At last, actually a Pilgrim!

During the drive from the airport my stomach had reminded me that I was very hungry, dinner long past. I sternly reminded myself that this was no time or place for materialistic appetites. This was the Holy Land, Holy of Holies of four great Revelations: Jewish, Christian, Islam, Baha'i. This was the place for food of the spirit not of the flesh. {Don't dare mention hunger, don't dare be any kind of trouble, you're here to be spiritual, not fat} At that noble moment, to my delight and relief, Jessie exclaimed, "You must be starved! So let's fix something to eat for all of us, we can use that too. Isobel and I have been on pins and needles waiting for you, hoping the plane wouldn't be too late."

In a chummy, laughing scramble we went downstairs to the kitchen. As we settled around the table over cheese sandwiches and coffee, Isobel, also a Pilgrim, said, "What a pity, Florence, you weren't here earlier, in the daytime. Because all of us at the World Centre gathered at Bahji for prayers at the shrine of Baha'u'llah to honor the First Day of Ridvan. So lovely today in the gardens, birds singing, flowers burst into bloom in celebration with us. And the high point came when the Guardian chanted the Tablet of Visitation in the shrine. If only you could have heard his voice, so uplifting, beautiful. I've never heard a voice to compare with his. Oh, if only your trip could have been arranged a day earlier!"

My heart floated away. Just floated away and left me empty. A weak far-off voice that was mine asked, "But won't the Guardian chant again? Sometime?"

"I don't think so," Jessie said regretfully. "The Guardian hasn't seemed well recently, so tired from all the stress in the world, the difficult struggles and sacrifices of Baha'i pioneers to settle in hard-to-enter goal areas. All these problems weigh heavily upon our Guardian, he is like a weather vane for the world. I was surprised when he chanted today, often now he requests another of the friends to do this." [p 138]

My heart came back inside me, and my mind was greedily pleading, {oh, please, God, have him chant again, until my better self took charge, added but not if he's too tired, God}.

The next morning I joined Isobel and the other two Western pilgrims, Alice Dudley and Sallie Saynor, the three of them excited over their scheduled visit to view the historic mementoes of the Faith in the Archives, located at that time in three rooms of the Bab's shrine. They urged me to accompany them and I eagerly followed them up steep stairs which led into those gardens so admired by the Israeli Consul of Los Angeles. The golden dome of the shrine shimmered in their midst, below it flower-bordered paths framing green lawns, beds of roses luxuriant with species from every clime. blossoming flame trees interspersed with the deep green of cypress, decorative iron sculptures rising like a half-told secret out of the rich growth. Eager though I was to view the relics of the Faith's dawning years, it was difficult not to linger on the red crushed rock paths, to remain entranced by the shimmering golden crown of the shrine, the entire mountainous view cupped by the Mediterranean Sea below as it curved into the harbor shared by Haifa and Old 'Akka.

My friends called. I hurried after them.

The entire pilgrim group of Persians and Westerners entered the center room of the three chambers allocated to the Archives, then turned into a side room. There Dr. Lutfu'llah Hakim, guide for the Pilgrims, stood beside a cabinet. As we approached he drew aside a covering which draped a cabinet, softly announced, "This is the photograph of Baha'u'llah."

I had seen the miniature painting of Baha'u'llah during the dedication of the American House of Worship in Wilmette, lovely, exquisite, a bounty to view. But here before me, inches distant, was the stark reality of a photograph of the Manifestation. I had not known one existed.

I pushed close to the venerable photograph, taken in Turkey when Baha'u'llah as prisoner was exiled to Palestine, taken after the stressful period when he had been poisoned by His envious half-brother, His health depleted, His hands forever after to tremor. A passport photograph, untouched, unflattering.

I moved to it as close as I could without breathing upon it, while the words written by Professor Edward G. Browne, eminent English Orientalist, not a Baha'i, who in 1890 had been the first Westerner to visit Him, rang in my memory:

* * * *

"The face of Him on whom I gazed I can never forget, though I cannot describe it. Those piercing eyes seemed to read one's very soul, power and authority sat on that ample brow, while the deep lines on the forehead and face implied an age which the jet-black hair and beard flowing down in indistinguishable luxuriance almost to the waist seemed to belie. No need to ask in whose presence I stood, as I bowed myself before one who is the object of a devotion and love which kings might envy and emperors sigh for in vain."[34] .......... [34. {Memories of 'Abdu'l-Baha--Recollections of the Early Days of the Baha'i Faith in California}, pp. 47-48.]

* * * *

Those borrowed words became mine as I gazed. And gazed, and gazed, entranced. Those eyes, yes, escaped that antique print to pierce my soul, as they had Dr. Browne's. More, their sight went beyond my soul, seeming to encompass an infinity of souls, comprehending the many in the one, possessing all. The pain marking that face carved it into majestic strength, its strong features sculptured, magnificent. I wanted to drown myself in that photograph, be absorbed into it forever.

I was aroused from its spell as a husky whisper sounded from the entrance door, "Get Mrs. Mayberry out of there!"

Oh God, what did I do wrong? Stand too close? Take more than my share of viewing, act greedy? [p 139]

I hurried to the entrance. "What did I do?"

"Not you," someone said. "They neglected to tell you that you should first pay respects to His Holiness, the Bab, He is your Host, this is His shrine. But it is not your mistake. Please come with me."

I followed this guide around the portico to the entrance of the inner shrine. A line of sight-seers waited at its entrance, but my guide said to this group, "Please wait a few minutes. This is a newly-arrived Baha'i who must be permitted to be alone within the shrine for a brief time."

The tall door opened and I was ushered inside, there to meet my Host. Alone.

Ever since entry into the Faith I had avidly read Pilgrims' notes regarding their pilgrimages, impressed by descriptions of their emotions experienced within the three shrines. Many had burst into tears, a few had visions. Some heard mystic other-world words which elevated their souls, saw shafts of unearthly light. I always speculated, with considerable hope, upon the possibility of some extraordinary illumination coming to me.

I knelt before the raised entrance to the inner shrine where beneath its floor rested the Body of the Gateway of this Revelation. I laid my forehead upon its carpet, longing to have its touch release some intimate connection with this Source of Power. Prayed. No vision came, no flash of intuition.

I stood, backed away, gazed upward at the ceiling in that instinctive human and physical reach for unearthly heights. Still no voice, no illumination, no anything.

I wanted to cry, like a disappointed child. But a stem, monitoring warning reverberated within my head, "Don't ask for something special--if you had earned it, it would have appeared, remember, greediness does not belong in this shrine, you just accept what comes!"

I whispered, "I will, I will." Backed to the outer door. Then, as I touched its handle, a lovely, astounding transformation came over me. Suddenly I felt so young, so pure, so noble. Not a transformation of myself, not an ego change arising within me. This feeling, this youth, purity and nobility belonged to the Bab. But for an instant it had radiated upon my soul, like a blessing. As though the Bab was aware of me, knew that I loved Him.

I left this shrine, was led to the shrine beside it, that of The Master, 'Abdu'l-Baha. This time, because of the wonderful gift just received, I did expect something, tried not to, couldn't help it.

The moment the door of 'Abdu'l-Baha's shrine closed behind me I was no longer a grown woman. I became the little child I used to be, impulsively ran to the inner shrine, rested my head upon its elevated entrance, said, "Oh 'Abdu'l-Baha, I love you, I love you!" As I had scampered to my Grandfather as a child, 'Abdu'l-Baha and His explanations had helped me comprehend the wonders of Baha'u'llah's Teachings. He, the wise Guide, the loving Protector Who led me through the nonsensical vagaries of my own thinking, my willful moods, faults. My Holy Grandfather, far, far beyond and above powers of an earthly grandfather. Even, yes possibly, that mysterious unseen Figure I almost met in Golden Gate Park.

I remained longer in this shrine, snuggled beside the step which opened into the inner room beneath which 'Abdu'l-Baha lay entombed, wishing the guide would forget I was here, and leave me so I could fall asleep, dream. And in the dream I would beg 'Abdu'l-Baha to tell me what to do to become a better person, promise Him to be a good girl.

That first day of pilgrimage, after luncheon at which the vibrant and companionably informal Ruhiyyih Khanum was hostess, the Western pilgrims were invited to join the ladies of the Eastern pilgrimage group at tea in the house of the Master, now residence of the Guardian and his wife. As the most recently arrived member of the Western [p 140] group, I felt awkward, uncertain regarding practically everything and enormously concerned to comport myself correctly. Alone I entered the large Arab-style dwelling, erected under direction of 'Abdu'l-Baha, to be ushered into a spacious inner salon by a smiling, head-scarfed maid. Just ahead, in a multi-windowed tea room, our hostess was already seated, the female members of the International Council, which included the Hand of the Cause of God, Amelia Collins, and the Western pilgrims seated on her right, and the Persian ladies on her left. Ruhiyyih Khanum motioned to me, patted the mandar (banquette) directly on her left. "Come sit beside me," she welcomed with charming authority, releasing me from temporary paralysis. Was this actually happening--that I would be sitting in 'Abdu'l-Baha's house beside the wife of the Guardian?

Dear Millie, whom I had known since my earliest years within the Faith, reached back of our hostess to give me an encouraging pat on the shoulder. Sylvia Ioas, wife of Hand of the Cause LeRoy Ioas, Jessie Revell and fellow pilgrims smiled, nodded. At left the Persian ladies, among them the pretty young woman, my fellow traveler on the air flight, also smiled and nodded. Ruhiyyih Khanum took my hand in hers. I eased out of my daze, relaxed into the ambiance of this special tea party.

Our hostess spoke in Persian to the Eastern ladies, translated to the Western group, then vice-versa. She requested that the small daughter of one of the Persian ladies recite poetry for us. The pretty child, her large oriental eyes centered in rapt attention just above Khanum's head, the slanted afternoon light from the many windows luminous upon her delicate features, musically chanted a long poem. A maid appeared with tea and refreshments.

Tea? Should I refuse it, ask for water, simply let it sit, captive to my life-long distaste for tea? No, no! Any drink served in this Holy Household surely had to become nectar--and if it did not, drink it anyway!

I accepted the fragile glass contained in a cloisonne holder, brought it to my lips, the exotic fragrance rising from the hot brew. Sipped it--cautiously--sipped again. This was tea? Real tea? No, it was ambrosia, delicious, to think I had deprived myself of tea all those years. Now at last I could have a go at England's teapots, so long envied, at my stop on the homeward journey. However, England's tea, I was to discover, was somewhat different. This was Persian-style samovar tea, a strongly steeped brew transformed by scalding water and sugar lumps into scented, heart-lifting delight.

Late in the afternoon, after two glasses of tea, Dr. Hakim entered the tea room to announce softly, "Ruhiyyih Khanum, the Guardian is here, he will see the ladies"

Instantly Khanum arose, walked swiftly into the central salon. Behind her in swift single file went the Eastern ladies, their faces lowered, eyes seemingly focused entirely upon their next step. It resembled a palace painting in animation, the tall fair woman, her expression so instantly eager, its anticipation magnetized by an unseen force followed by the shy dark-haired women, their eyes shuttered, expectancy throbbing in their cheeks. It was reminiscent of a queen trailed by her ladies-in-waiting on their way to the throne room.

The Western women waited a few moments, then passed through the outer salon on their way to the exit foyer. Earlier, Millie had explained to me that this was the special time the Guardian spent with the Eastern women, the Westerners would have their turn later at dinner. I lagged behind, entranced by the resonance of a masculine voice coming from a closed room opposite the tea room. The Guardian, I knew, speaking to the Persian ladies in their language. Did I dare--to stoop, camouflage my height, creep behind the small Persians, listen, what did it matter that I didn't know Persian, I could look at the Guardian, how could I endure waiting another hour or so to see him, all the others had seen him, heard him, I was the only one left out, did I dare?

Naturally I didn't. But I lagged, moving at snail speed across the wide floor, clinging [p 141] to each inflection of that vibrant voice, feeling loss when I stepped from the house into the front garden.

I joined the Western friends in the upper salon of the Western Pilgrim House. An extraordinary group, certainly, comprised of Hands of the Cause, International Baha'i Council members and my fellow pilgrims so admired for pioneering and teaching exploits, But none of our interest was for this group. All expectancy was focused toward the imminent arrival of the Guardian, conversation desultory, tension abstracting us. In this interim I worried myself by wondering what I would say when finally introduced to the Guardian, what on earth could I say that had any interest or value. And another thing to worry about--I knew from all those pilgrim notes I had read that the latest pilgrim to arrive always led the dinner group into the dining room to be welcomed by the Guardian. I would be first in, with nothing to say!

A young maid wearing a white head scarf entered the alcove where we were grouped, and whispered, "Dinner is served, the Guardian is here."

Instantly Millie, who suffered from arthritis so crippling she often found it difficult to walk, hopped from her chair like a young girl and fleet-footedly ran down the steep stairs to the lower floor. {Oh thank God, Millie will be first, I can follow her}.

But at the bottom of the stairs, Millie waited, gave me a gentle push forward, "Florence, you lead."

I turned, faced a distant room on the far side of an unlighted entry room. In that distant illuminated room was a long oblong table. Standing to the right of its head was a small, waiting male figure, wearing a black taj and a long camel-toned coat over his dark suit. As I approached him, his hand reached out to take mine. That vibrant, ringing voice already heard said, "Welcome! Welcome!"

So simple, that greeting. But by some alchemy of feeling, a composite of my emotion and the timbre of that extraordinary voice, it seemed to say much more, nothing I could define, but simply felt. Immediately I felt transformed from a stranger into an integral family part of this household.

Before I left home, when David and I discussed this trip, I had said, "According to Pilgrim notes, the Guardian at dinner always seats the newest pilgrim at the head of the table, just to his left where he sits on the side of the table, with Ruhiyyih Khanum seated at the Guardian's right. But I wish he wouldn't do that when I go. I want to sit directly across the table from him so I can look and look at him, memorize his face so I can describe it to everyone when I return." "I wouldn't ask," advised David, "You'll be lucky just to be there." Well, of course I wouldn't ask!

On this first night, after the Guardian welcomed each one to the table, he turned to me and said, pointing across the table from him, "Mrs. Mayberry, please sit there."

I turned around the table and was seating myself, when that resonant voice spoke again, "At last you have attained your heart's desire."

Still in process of sitting, I was abruptly in a struggle to force back spontaneous tears. A torrent was welling back of my eyes, if left to its own momentum I would be forced to flee the room, leave this company. I bit my lips, swallowed, clenched my hands, willed back the torrent. Could only nod. Until that precise moment, those precise words of the Guardian, I had not realized consciously, that throughout my life some inner awareness had waited for this desire to be fulfilled. Not knowing in actuality, but being aware in some mystic reality that I longed to be in this Holy Land in the presence of this Descendant of the Revealer of the Word of God. Yes, surely, it was my heart's desire, and I was wracked by the wonder of its attainment.

After we were all seated, the Guardian gazed across at me, said gently, "You are overcome." Again I could only nod, swallow more tears. [p 142]

As the Guardian began to speak to the general company, I rapidly recovered, ready to catch every word, my eyes eager not to miss any facet of his features, any expression. Shortly before my trip. while in Idaho, a university professor who had taught Shoghi Effendi at the American University of Beirut, in describing Shoghi Effendi as a boy, said he was beautiful, an unusual way of describing a young male. Now I saw that the professor was correct. Shoghi Effendi was beautiful. Not in any way an effeminate beauty, rather one totally masculine, its delicacy and sensitivity coupled with great strength. His eyes were large, round and glowing, with the slightly almond contour seen so often in Persian miniature paintings. Rather than piercing as had Baha'u'llah's eyes appeared in His photograph, His great-grandson's eyes were absorbing, magnetic, as though drawing within them whatever they gazed upon. His nose was well formed in harmony with the strength of the oval face. And the mouth, I thought, how shall I describe his mouth? I made an impulsive decision that if I were very wealthy, able to commission the world's finest etcher--etcher, not painter--to create the most perfect masculine mouth, this would be it.

As the Guardian spoke, his words rapid yet clear as crystal, the conditions and affairs of the world swept over one in a flood of insight and original vision, presenting a universal comprehension of the world in conjunction with its problems, along with a Jovian view of its torturous efforts to discover remedy for its relief, then pointing out the bright solution, the luminous hope guiding it forward.

I longed for the voice never to hush, the face and compelling personality to remain with us forever. Did I eat? I suppose so, I don't remember.

* * * *

The very heart of the pilgrimage was the visit to the shrine of Baha'u'llah. The spiritual stimulation, mystery and excitement engendered by coming face to face with the Guardian stemmed from Baha'u'llah, Bearer of the Divine Message to mankind. So how would I feel upon entering His shrine? What emotions would arise within the Mansion of Bahji where His final days in this world had been spent? The very room where He breathed His last breath and entered a higher level of Eternity? Surely it would be the most imperative, the most moving of the three holy shrines.

{Be careful, I warned myself, stop expecting, accept as a gift whatever comes or does not come}.

On the day of visit to this Most Great shrine, we pilgrims, Eastern and Western joined, first visited the harsh stone prison, then renovated into a mental hospital, where Baha'u'llah's cell was located. This cell had been graciously allotted by the government to the Baha'is for visitations.

We stood in that cell, knelt on stones where Baha'u'llah had stood as He reached high His hand to wave a kerchief in greeting to pilgrims forbidden access to the One they had walked hundreds of miles to meet. Brushed our hands on rough stone walls He had paced beside--did they retain any vibration of the Voice that had once chanted within them? Surely they must, the whole cell was imprinted with memories.

Our group gathered then at the House of 'Abbud in 'Akka, the dwelling where His Mother Book, the {Kitab-i-Aqdas} had been revealed; then on to properties outside the city where Baha'u'llah had rested and recuperated after those stark years of confinement in the prison city. How can God be so patient with a humanity that spurns so cruelly and self-righteously His Messengers of healing?

Not until dark had fallen did we at last reach the gardens of Bahji, which surround the Mansion. Garden lamps were turned on, illuminating the red crushed stone pathway to the distant shrine. To one side of the shrine, separated by a narrow garden, additional lighting revealed the upper balcony of the Mansion of Bahji. From the entrance gate we walked silently down the long pathway toward the shrine. [p 143]

We entered the shrine as a group. The Persians, quick of soul, wept, prostrating themselves even on the outer pathway. The Americans followed, yielding themselves to the compelling reverence. A slow entry, but at last all were within the shrine.

In the center of this tall glass-roofed room was a small inner garden, flowers blooming, living fruit upon small trees, vines reaching toward the distant skylight, flourishing symbols of life. In one corner of this room a raised entrance opened into a dimly-lighted adjoining room. Within that room, in its far corner, beneath the carpeted floor. the body of the Manifestation had been laid to rest.

In turn each pilgrim approached the threshold of the inner shrine, knelt or stood before it as each preferred, offered whatever silent prayer each desired. Our guide. Dr. Hakim, chanted the Tablet of Visitation. Perhaps other prayers were chanted or read, I no longer recall. What I do remember was the powerful, vibrant sense of life within that shrine. No trace of death, no sadness but a quiet joy.

After paying respects to Baha'u'llah, we were served supper in the adjoining Pilgrim House. At that time its eaves were open so that--as I observed next morning-birds flew freely inside to place expectant bright eyes upon the breakfast we were eating.

After supper we climbed the stairway to the upper level of the Mansion, across from the Pilgrim House, to enter the softly illumined room of Baha'u'llah; within it to approach the corner of the cushioned mandar where had sat Baha'u'llah during that historic visit of Dr. Edward G. Browne who later wrote his extraordinary description of his Host. And there, near the center of the room, on the floor was spread the small, so simple white bed where Baha'u'llah's last breath had floated into the night. It was a poignant reminder of how little material comfort had come to His stress-ridden life, and also of how pure and white had been His earthly lot in contrast to the material darkness of the world. In addition, the small bed was a reminder of the physically small stature of that Holy Instrument which had lain on it, an Instrument so touchingly fine and fragile yet so steely of endurance.

Baha'u'llah's little bed broke my heart. In those unsuspected years ahead of me I would see that bed many times, and it always broke my heart. Resembling a child's pallet, it exerted its own power, made me yearn to gather it close, cosset it as I begged forgiveness for myself and for the world that spawned me for our blindness and neglect.

Dr. Hakim assigned each pilgrim a separate bedroom for our stay at Bahji, rooms historic from association with historic visitors who had earlier used them. He assigned to me the large room opposite that of Baha'u'llah that he referred to as "The Guardian's Room," used by Shoghi Effendi on visits.

Not until next morning did opportunity come for me to enter the shrine alone.

After kneeling before the inner shrine, I moved across the room to a spot where both inner shrine and little garden were in view. Knelt. Waited. And waited, expectantly. At last I accepted that no intimate, special perception would occur; brushed away disappointment, assured myself that this was just how it should be.

Then it happened. Richness flooded me throughout every vein, bone, atom. I was suffused with an intangible richness, a veritable butter-richness of mystic wealth, Not my richness, not a personal wealth, but a wealth awaiting whoever longed for it and opened the human spirit to accept it.

The Persian pilgrims, Isobel Sabri and I spent April 27 and 28 in 'Akka and Bahji, Alice Dudley and Sallie Saynor having departed a few days earlier. Our return to Haifa was late morning April 29 to take part in commemoration of the Ninth of the Twelve Days of Ridvan, those memorable days of 1863 spent by Baha'u'llah, His family and followers on a garden island in the Tigris River outside the city of Baghdad, Iraq. It was during that time that Baha'u'llah made His momentous Declaration of Divine Mission, and ever after referred to that island spot as the garden of Ridvan (garden of [p 144] Paradise). This Declaration occurred immediately prior to His exile to Turkey, followed later by His imprisonment in Palestine. The ninth of those momentous Days received particular attention as the eventful day on which He was joined by His family.

The women at the World Centre, including the pilgrims, were guests at a midday Feast held in the large salon of the Master's House, our hostess, Ruhiyyih Khanum. The Feast was simple and delicious: pilau, fruit and tea. The men attended a similar Feast hosted by Shoghi Effendi in the Eastern Pilgrim House. Following the meal, we women travelled up Mount Carmel to Dr. Hakim's residence, there to await the appearance of the Guardian.

A maid watched anxiously at a window, then announced breathlessly that the Guardian and the men were now entering the pathway leading toward the shrine. Instantly, with that same expectancy on her face that I had seen the afternoon of the tea, Ruhiyyih Khanum hurried to the doorway, the rest of us close behind. Ahead the men walked around the shrine to its far side, we women entering the opposite doorway.

Within the shrine sheer curtains draped the archways opening into the central room, softened the outlines of the men in the far room, light from the crystal chandelier revealing at their center the small, dominant figure of the Guardian. All awaited silently the chanting of whoever was selected by the Guardian to deliver the Tablet of Visitation.

Out of the silence arose a strong, lyrical chant, soaring up into the vaulted ceiling, seeming to escape into the freedom of the sky. This was the Guardian's voice, in the chant I feared I would never hear! As the prayer vibrated the air I felt I had never before experienced the impact of this Tablet of Visitation, entirely had missed its inner potency. Somehow it was now transformed in my hearing into a plea of the Bab Himself, grieving for humanity, those poor troubled creatures too blinded by self and tradition to comprehend the Gift offered by their Creator.

The chanting ended. We left this shrine to gather in 'Abdu'l-Baha's shrine. Once again the beautiful voice soared. Twice I heard the Guardian chant.

After leaving the shrine we gathered informally in the garden, stood at the head of the long, gate-guarded stairway which led down to the base of the Mountain. With queer shock I gazed at the city below, busy with its late afternoon affairs, unaware of the wonder in the shrine above it. I felt that somehow here, in this Holy Land of religious marvels, all Haifa should have vibrated with the impact of that voice, felt the call from the holy mountain.

* * * *

Two nights later came my final evening of pilgrimage. Isobel's departure on the ninth day of Ridvan had left me the sole visitor at the Guardian's table.

At some point during that meal, Shoghi Effendi called for the {World Book, Volume XII} to discuss and examine the various maps within it. Also he called for the Scroll of the Knights of Baha'u'llah, and spread it out the length of the table. He pointed to a few empty spaces on this Scroll and asked me to tell the friends that a few souls could still win the honor of having their names inscribed on the roll before it is placed in the shrine of Baha'u'llah for all time. And all this is a great honor. Earlier in the week, however, he had mentioned Marion Jack in conjunction with the Knights of Baha'u'llah and said, "They are Knights of Baha'u'llah--but Marion Jack is the General! She was different than many of the pioneers now. She would not leave her post even when I asked her to do so for her own safety."

At the end of the evening, Shoghi Effendi arose and handed me a vial of attar of roses. As he had said to the other departing pilgrims, he said to me, "I will never forget you." He added, "And I will pray for America." In a weak voice I said, "Pray for me, Shoghi Effendi." I didn't hear him answer. [p 145]

Then he said, "I thank you for all your work. And I pray that you go on to greater victories in other continents."

He turned, walked away. For the first time I viewed him with his back turned. Only then did I think of the Guardian as tired. His shoulders sloped slightly as though weighted by an unseen heavy burden. My heart twinged, and I wished that somehow the burden would lift, that he could rest.

And then he was gone....

If I had known that evening, in some fateful precognition, that in a few months Shoghi Effendi would be gone from this world, I don't think I could have borne it.

I don't know about victories, but I did go on to other continents. But not enough. Surely, not enough of anything.

[p 146]