The Table

Sally Rasmussen

Recipe for peace

Quakers were originally known (and officially, still are) as the Society of Friends. Their gatherings are called meetings for worship. This is an imagined day in the life of my 18th century ancestors.

“Tis thy lack of compassion, daughter, that will destroy our Meeting!” Sarah’s eyes stung with the harshness of her father’s rebuke as she stood and stared at his back as he strode on. Her humiliation was deepened when her brother Thomas turned to give her a smug look, then hurried to take her place by Isaiah’s side.

She felt a gentle pressure in the small of her back as her mother guided her steps to continue on the path to the Friends Meeting House. Sarah had grown to her mother’s height and looked on the level into her eyes. “How could he mother? How could he say that? What have I done that is wrong?”

Hannah fortified herself against the ache in her own heart over the woundedness in her daughter’s voice. She gazed at the mirror images of her husband and son in their black cloaks and broad-brimmed black hats as they walked ahead on the York Road. She spoke with a firmness that invited no discussion. “Thy father is weary of thy sour-tempered talk regarding the Buckman family. Thy speech produces neither light nor warmth, nor any good thing. To accuse them of destroying our Meeting was a step too far. His rebuke was welldeserved, Sarah.” Sarah opened her mouth, but for once could not speak. She bit her lip and stumbled onward, blinking against the tears. Finally, she squeezed words past her tightened throat. “I suppose I am meant to love them.” Sarah meant this as humility, but she couldn’t forebear to add: “Though what they do goes against the testimonies of our Society.”

Her mother tucked a strand of hair beneath her dovegray bonnet. “I fear that love may be beyond thee. But thee should wish their happiness.”

Sarah frowned. “But should people of such meanness be rewarded with happiness, mother?”

Hannah’s heart lifted as the two-story stone Meeting House came into sight. “The meanness thee speaks of, the anger--even hatred--do these not cause them great suffering? And is it not our part to wish all people free of suffering? That is the compassion thy father spoke of, daughter.”

Sarah stared at the ground in front of her, puzzling over her mother’s words.

Hannah rested a hand on her daughter’s shoulder as they climbed the hill on which the Meeting House stood to receive its people through the open door. “And when thee pays mind to the things that are in thy control, daughter, rather than things that are not, thy own suffering of anger and hatred may be relieved.”

Ahead of them Isaiah and Thomas doffed their hats as they passed inside. Hannah paused, turning her daughter to face her. “Hold them in the Light, Sarah, and that Light shall fall on thee, as well.” She stroked Sarah’s cheek and smiled. “Maybe start with thy father, thinking on him during our silent worship, standing in that pure, clean Light. Wish him all good things, freedom from all the suffering we place upon ourselves in this life. Then move on to those thee finds less agreeable. Thy brother, perhaps.”

Sarah blushed and looked down as the stream of people moved past her and her mother. Hannah continued. “And so on, from those easiest to have compassion for to those who are the most difficult. This is my way. Perhaps it will work for thee.’ Sarah looked into her mother’s eyes and smiled as best she could, nodding her head. “I will try.” The two women turned and joined their neighbors to pass through the open door.

Recipe For Peace

Gather thy intentions, cleaning them of all fault-finding.

Undertake with patience to bind them with thoughts of whatever is true, lovely, commendable and praiseworthy.

Hold them long in the light of compassion until thee wishes all people the same happiness thee seeks for thyself.

This then shall be thy peace, the meat and drink for thy soul.

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Sally Rasmussen lives in rural Taylor County with her husband, Tom.