Hello, Sun

      “Hello, sun in my face.”

      With the Quakers, I sit outside the meeting room, under the giant redwood trees.
As we hold each other in one hour of silence, I watch the light pass through the branches,
across the trunks, feel the sun brushing my cheeks.

      Moved by the Spirit, Friends can break the silence with worshipful ministry.
      Rita stands: “Hello, sun in my face.”

      Her voice is deep like the Sarabande of Bach’s unaccompanied cello suites,
She voices Mary Oliver, “Why I Wake Early,” words that she remembers—the sun,
the star, “best preacher that ever was.”

      “to hold us in the great hands of light— / good morning, good morning, good
morning.”

      The sign at the door says: “Quakers welcome migrants with dignity.” A Friend
bought whistles for everyone, a nonviolent way of warning of ICE presence, an ICE raid.
Renée Nicole Good was killed this week.

      Rita’s hair is long, brown, pinned up on her head. She sits in the circle next to the
man with the service dog, a blonde Labrador. The animal extends one paw under the
chair next to him, to reach the sun, the light. Warmth. His nose, wet with smelling scents,
wiggles as he breathes in and out.

      Later, as they open for announcements, the greeting Friend asks for people to
keep in the light. We hear Rita again. Her John’s cancer returned. He is undergoing
aggressive treatments.

      I think about aggressive treatments. I think about aggressive moments of joy. I think about moments. How they pass. Like the light.

      When I leave, I drive home with my whistle.

      “Hello, sun in my face.”