Last night, stepping through the weeds across a low wall into the lot where Mt. Carmel Baptist Church used to be. Remembering what used to be. Gathering in a place of destruction to mourn destruction. Gathering in a place of continuity to pray for continuity. Meek smiles. Tears. The names of so many human beings who have lost their lives in Gaza since July 8. An hour to read almost 400 names and ages. Less than a third of the now more than 1200 killed. Including an eighteen-month old girl. The same age as my daughter. A welling up of tears. Next to me, a man sobbed quietly, wiping away his tears with his hand. The circles of protective paper on the candles inadvertently burning occasionally as people lost track of the flame slowly burning down. An invitation to read the rest of the names at home. Something heartening, something necessary and significant, about standing outside with others, together in solidarity, physically, under a setting sun, an occasional light breeze coming in from the Gulf putting out my candle. Leaning over to the men next to me to re-light. The sounds of names continuing slowly, ploddingly, every accent a bit different, every voice intoning the names with their own rhythm, their own sadness.