Revelation on Rose Street
New York City – A Fine Autumn Day in 1843
I was still feeling a bit weak that first Day morning, after several days in bed with a bilious fever. But I was now better, and the weather in New York was fair.
My good wife agreed that a walk to Meeting would likely do me good. It was only four blocks to Rose Street, after all.
Several men Friends were milling around near the broad meetinghouse steps, on their way into the plain brick building. But one lingered, not going in. His tall figure was unmistakable even though his grey coat and broadbrim hat were like all the others.
It was Simon Goodloe, and he was standing on the top step, looking over and past the rest, evidently waiting for someone. And I thought that someone must be me, because as soon as he recognized me he came striding down the steps, long legs moving like those of a graceful grey crane, and extended his hand.
“Jacob Hicks, I heard thee was ill,” he said, his grip firm.
“I’m better,” I answered, “but grateful to be here.”
professional poet.
