The Waterfall That Prayed

A retelling for children, based on Mahmúd's Diary (entry of September 9, 1912).

For several days in the city of Buffalo, 'Abdu'l-Bahá had been giving talk after talk, with crowds coming to listen from morning until night. It was busy, tiring work — and He had not been feeling well. So the friends in Buffalo planned something different for Him: a quiet outing to see one of the most amazing sights in all the world. They got the carriages ready and set off north, out of the city, toward the great Niagara Falls.

If you have never seen a giant waterfall, it is hard to imagine. Picture a whole river — wide and deep — pouring over a high cliff all at once, day and night, never stopping. The water crashes down so hard that it throws up clouds of mist, and the sound is like endless thunder that you can feel in your chest.

'Abdu'l-Bahá walked to the lookout and stood at the railing. And then He did something simple and beautiful: He just looked. For a long, long time, He gazed at the water falling and falling. He did not say a word. The friends who had come with Him stood back a little way, quietly, because they did not want to interrupt. They could see this was a special moment, and they let the silence be.

At last, 'Abdu'l-Bahá spoke. And He spoke about the sound.

You see, when you stand by a waterfall long enough, something strange happens. The roar is so steady, never starting and never stopping, that after a while your ears almost forget it is a noise at all. It begins to feel like a deep quiet underneath everything. That endless roar of the water, 'Abdu'l-Bahá said, "was a kind of prayer." The whole earth, He told them, is full of voices like this, if only we have ears that know how to hear them. The falls were simply one of the loudest.

He did not stay very long, because the long stand at the railing had tired Him. Soon the little group climbed back into the carriage and rode home to Buffalo as evening came. In the diary, the visit takes up only a few quiet sentences — an afternoon, a drive, a few words spoken at a railing. The very next morning, 'Abdu'l-Bahá went back to His travels, with more talks to give in other cities. The roar of the falls was left behind Him.

But those few sentences were written down and saved. And for a hundred years since, when Bahá'ís stand before something huge and wonderful in nature — a mountain, an ocean, a storm, a waterfall — they remember that the Master once stood at this very place and heard, in a sound too big for any words, a prayer that never ends.

That is the gift He left us: the world is always speaking, if we grow quiet enough to listen. The next time you hear rushing water, or wind in the trees, or waves on a shore, you can stop and listen too — and remember that all of creation is praying, all the time.

This is a retelling for children. For the fuller account, see "The Sound of the Falls: 'Abdu'l-Bahá at Niagara".

Maḥmúd-i-Zarqání, M.. (1998). *Mahmúd's Diary: The Diary of Mírzá Maḥmúd-i-Zarqání*. George Ronald.