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.
All the believers of New York had gathered at the pier to
meet the Master’s ship. Marjorie and I
had suggested to them that the Master might not want this public demonstration,
but their eagerness was too great to be influenced by just two, and so we had
gone along with them—only too glad to do so, to tell the truth.
During the morning the harbour misted over. At last, in the
mist we saw: a phantom ship! And at that very moment some newsboys ran
through the crowd, waving Extras. “The Pope is dead! The Pope is dead!” they
shouted. The Pope was not dead. The Extras had been printed only on a rumour;
but what a symbol, and how exactly timed!