Weddings and funerals. That’s when I usually step in a church. And now, tragedies.

Zoe and I mapquested our way to St. Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral in Minneapolis Sunday evening. The baby stayed home with her daddy. Zoe, three-and-a-half, knew we were going for the people who were hurt when the bridge fell down, and she was lured by the promise of music and a late bedtime.

I’d been thinking earlier about the names of the dead and the missing: Blackhawk, Engebretsen, Trinidad-Mena, Sahal….and how they showed the diverse fabric of life in Minnesota, a fabric now torn by tragedy.

On Sunday, we heard Quranic verses and Hindu scriptures echo through the cathedral, community leaders and rabbis and priests speaking one after another, including in Spanish. Three Buddhist monks in blood-orange robes sat in the fourth row. If I were more of a church-goer, I could describe to you the various robes that lined the front row, but you’ll just have to take my word that they were myriad.

It was a little hard to be contemplative with a wriggly three-year-old on my lap, changing positions every 5 seconds and whispering non-stop. I apologize to the woman in the pink flowered dress next to me and the man in the pale brown shirt on the other side - you were both more than gracious. Zoe wasn’t the only young one. There were people making their way in with children and even babies way after the service started. 

But I was glad to have had my little girl to hug, and for her to see how people of all colors and faiths can come together, in a way we too rarely do when things are going well.

(Here’s the story in today’s paper.)

This entry was posted on Sunday, August 5th, 2007 at 10:59 pm and is filed under Main. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.