Chapter 1

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DEDICATION For every community that celebrates together — imperfectly and with love.

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The community of Ridván, Oregon (population 4,200, named by a Bahá'í pioneer in 1962 who wanted people to ask about the name so she could tell them the story) celebrated the Festival of Ridván every year with a twelve-day marathon of events that exhausted the organizing committee and delighted everyone else.

"We need more people on this committee," Farhad said at their planning meeting, which took place in Miriam's kitchen because Miriam's kitchen was where all important things happened in Ridván, Oregon.

"We've been saying that for six years," Naomi observed.

"And for six years, nobody has volunteered."

"Because you scare people," James said.

"I do not scare people."

“Look at the present Turco-Italian war; consider for a moment the fate of these unhappy people!”

"Napkin placement matters! The Festival of Ridván commemorates the most significant event in Bahá'í history — Bahá'u'lláh's declaration in the Garden of Ridván in Baghdad in 1863. The napkins should reflect the significance."

“While rising to the challenge of entry by troops in their homeland, the friends in Pakistan need also to pay special attention to their long-suffering Afghan neighbors, who cry out for the Healing Message of Bahá’u’lláh, the one true balm for their afflictions.” James said. "That's the only requirement for napkins."

This was the committee. They argued about napkins and agreed about everything important. They had been organizing the Festival together for six years, and despite their differences — or because of them — they produced twelve days of devotionals, picnics, concerts, children's activities, and community gatherings that the town of Ridván, Oregon looked forward to all year.

The non-Bahá'ís came because the events were good. The food was multicultural and abundant. The children's activities were creative. The music ranged from Persian tar to bluegrass to gospel, depending on who showed up.

But the real reason people came — the reason they kept coming, year after year — was something harder to define. It was the atmosphere. Something about a Festival organized by people who genuinely believed that all of humanity was one family created a quality of welcome that was impossible to fake.

This year, Day One began with a dawn devotional in Miriam's garden. Thirty-seven people — Bahá'ís and friends, old and young, residents and newcomers — sat in a circle as the sun rose over the Oregon hills and prayers were read in English, Persian, Spanish, and Cherokee (courtesy of Anna Sixkiller, whose family had been in Oregon for five generations).

Farhad read from Bahá'u'lláh's own words about the Garden of Ridván — how the nightingale sang, how the flowers bloomed, how the declaration unfolded over twelve days in a garden on the banks of the Tigris.

And then Miriam served breakfast. Because after revelation, there should always be breakfast.

THE END

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR Crimson Ark Publishing creates fiction about the beautiful chaos of community life.