"In times of distress and sorrow, Milly would often repeat, `Why? Why?' And when one day she was asked what she meant by that question, she said, "Why am I alive? I am ill, weak and not able to travel and teach. What is the use of my life?'
"It was a winter's day when this conversation took place, in the office of the Hands of the Cause, where a small kerosene stove was burning. I said to her, `Milly dear, isn't the weather very cold now?'
"`Yes,' she replied.
"`How is it that we can sit here, hold meetings, read letters, send messages to the Bahá'í world, in such comfort and ease? It is because of that little stove that is burning. It doesn't say anything. Does it make speeches? Does it travel? Never! The stove burns as long as it has kerosene. It gives its heat to us very generously and in that warmth we work. This is true of our physical comfort; then how much more do we need spiritual heat to give us energy and power to go on and carry the load to the year sixty-three, when we shall surrender all into the hands of the Supreme Body. Now, dearest, you are our spiritual stove. You burn and we speak, write, travel.'"
"Now after the lapse of one century we can stand in the precincts of the Fortress to gaze at the windows of His prison cell. We remember the dauntless pilgrims who crossed desserts and mountains on foot with the sole aim of beholding the countenance of their Beloved. When they reached those sacred shores some were forbidden to enter; others came in, but could not behold His face, nor where their hearts attracted by hearing His melodious voice. A few--only a few--saw His hand waving from the same windows. They saw little and received physically less, but were so imbued with the spirit of pilgrimage that they returned home and consecrated their lives to the service of the Cause.
"We ask ourselves, "Where are the Caliphs, the Sultáns, their ministers and their officers who hand in hand and with all their material forces tried to exterminate the Faith of God? We see with our own eyes that the dazzling lights of their vanishing glory have long been extinguished. Their commanding voices have been stilled by the ignominious death they are suffered. Forsaken and forgotten, they are buried in the ruins of their own schemes, intrigues and plots. Then once more we remember the sweet and assuring words of the Master, uttered in the darkest hour of His precious life when He said that all the plans made by the enemies of the Cause would eventually prove to be nothing more but painting on water. Then we behold the All-Conquering Figure of Bahá'u'lláh emerging from the mists of myriads of crises and upheavals like a beautiful silhouette against the evening sky above--far above the reach of men. We feel His merciful hand raised to wipe away our tears, to touch our fever-laden brows, to comfort our suffering hearts, to assuage our pain and to give reassurance to our struggling souls.
"Let us renew the pledge of love and devotion we made to such a compassionate Lord and decide to return home with unflinching determination. Let us disperse; yet, united in our aim and welded together in His love, let us take our place among the rank and file of the Army of Life and with a powerful and animated spirit raise the cry of "Ya Bahá'u'l-Abhá!" in all climes, countries, lands and plains and on all the seas and the mountain tops. Undaunted by the over-whelming tragedies of the world around us, let us tread the path of love and sacrifice, looking forward to the advent of that promised dawn when the world will bathe in the light and warmth of the Sun of Truth shining with all its God-given splendor, when man can live in abiding peace and unity and when the earth will become the true mirror of the Abhá Kingdom."
The children by the upturned sod
Strew flowers, weeping. Only God
Who holds the slightest winged thing dear
Knows all the sweetness folded here.
Were such love possible? Ask we
Who dole it with economy,
Squander doubt and hoard affection
In private vaults beyond detection.
On Carmel trails the sun's gilt sleeve
As we chilled mourners slowly leave
And to a lessened warmth then turn
Who tutored by our loss might learn
To seize the thought his death installs:
Who'd serve the King must love his thralls.
Roger White
Haifa, 27 November 1980
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