From: Vignettes about 'Abdu'l-Baha
I was wakened this morning [April 11, 1912] while it was yet dark by something shining into my eyes. It was a ray from the moon, its waning crescent framed low in my windowpane.
Symbol of the Covenant, was my first thought. How perfectly beautiful to be wakened today by it! But at once I remembered another time when I had seen the waning moon hanging, then, above palm trees. I was on the roof of the House in ‘Akká with the Master and Munavvar Khánum. The Master was pointing to the moon. “The East. The moon. No!” He said. “I am the Sun of the West.”
At dawn, kneeling at my window, I prayed in the swelling light for all this land, now sleeping, that it would wake to received its Lord; conscious, as I prayed, of an overshadowing Sacred Presence: a great, glorious, burning Presence—the Sun of Love rising. This fiery dawn was but a pale symbol of such a rising.
Between seven and eight I went to the pier with Marjorie Morten and Rhoda Nichols. The morning was crystal clear, sparkling. I had a sense of its being Easter: of lilies, almost seen, blooming at my feet.
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Symbol of the Covenant, was my first thought. How perfectly beautiful to be wakened today by it! But at once I remembered another time when I had seen the waning moon hanging, then, above palm trees. I was on the roof of the House in ‘Akká with the Master and Munavvar Khánum. The Master was pointing to the moon. “The East. The moon. No!” He said. “I am the Sun of the West.”
At dawn, kneeling at my window, I prayed in the swelling light for all this land, now sleeping, that it would wake to received its Lord; conscious, as I prayed, of an overshadowing Sacred Presence: a great, glorious, burning Presence—the Sun of Love rising. This fiery dawn was but a pale symbol of such a rising.
Between seven and eight I went to the pier with Marjorie Morten and Rhoda Nichols. The morning was crystal clear, sparkling. I had a sense of its being Easter: of lilies, almost seen, blooming at my feet.
Read more…
