From the Editor: Weaving

One of the things I always enjoyed most about reading Western Friend before I became the editor was Memorial Minutes. These minutes, often lovingly crafted by committee, read like a story. I’m regularly shocked by how industrious Friends are: traveling the world, changing careers based on leading, living multiple lives within one lifetime.

I heard a Memorial Minute read aloud recently and right from the jump, I thought the person described was a lesbian. I whispered as much to my friend sitting beside me. She rode horses, was outdoorsy, and enjoyed sports. “Gay, obviously,” we concluded. Then (horrors) she marries a man? We share raised eyebrows and incredulous eye contact. There are children (okay), but then (hallelujah) an amicable divorce. I’m rooting for her: Is she going to figure it out? “And then she met her partner in life and love…” My lips are pursed. A woman’s name! Tears roll down my face at the thought of a person I never met being seen and held in the completeness of her being.

The plot shifts: After many happy years, a diagnosis of a terminal illness is faced with bravery and love. Surrounded by family of blood and choice, she leaves behind a life of good works, satisfaction, struggle, and the full range of human emotion and experience. I am skilled at public crying after years of living and working in retreat centers that had tissues in every room, but I’m at the edge of what I consider an acceptable display of sudden grief for someone I’d never met. Pulling myself together, I hear a familiar name being invited to speak. “I know that name?” my friend whispers to me. I don’t remember names easily, so I must have heard it recently. I manage to choke out the words: “It’s her partner.” She’s been there in the room with us this whole time. We’re being extremely quiet, but I feel like, energetically, we’re causing a scene. “Thank God she figured out she was gay. If she didn’t, I was gonna lose my goddamn mind,” I whisper, dabbing my eyes with my sleeve.

A little girl brings over a necklace she strung together during meeting for us to admire. After watching the tide rise and fall quickly through the days of someone else’s life, I’m ready to focus on the child before us. “It’s beautiful,” my friend says to the girl, who immediately tucks her chin to her shoulder, batting her eyes and grinning. She looks back at us without moving her head to make sure we’re paying attention, then gets embarrassed to see that we are and runs away. Are all hearts clear? I check mine, and for once, it is.