The candles flickered a warm, inviting glow in the dusk gathering around the makeshift memorial shrine: the boots, the American flag, the small sign with the body count. I looked but turned away. I couldn’t go there. Not right then. I was tired. I was hungry. Maybe later.

The peace protesters, dressed in the black of mourning, stood in silence on the Prescott street corner. My gaze met each one. Another protester's nearby posters, plastered with images of the dead, haunted me. “The face of war,” one read. Children missing limbs, bloodied lifeless bodies – they were all too real, whether in those posters or in my memory. Yes, I had seen the face of war.

The Women In Black stood side-by-side in a circle, facing outward and holding their signs demanding peace. They looked at me and I looked at them. I wore my “Camp Ar-Ramadi Iraq 2006” sweatshirt as protection against the cool evening mountain air, but I wore it, too, because I am proud to have been there and served and I am not afraid to let people know.

I was a child during the Vietnam conflict. I remember the pictures and the stories of returning veterans being mocked, taunted and spat on; now, here I was, walking directly into the middle of a peace rally wearing something that easily identified me as one of “them,” one of the military. I mused on that a moment. The people standing silently would form opinions about me, about my sweatshirt that read “Camp Ar-Ramadi Iraq 2006.” Yet they would have no idea, absolutely no idea that I was really one of them too, a peace activist of sorts, a Quaker minister in the military.

I wanted to stop and look. I wanted to stop and talk. But I didn’t. I was tired. I was hungry. Maybe later. I was overwhelmed too. The poster images took me back to the faces and the broken bodies of the Iraqi children I saw. I have held those little hands. I, too, have stood as a peace activist in silent vigil, in silent solidarity, praying for peace at the bedsides of children blasted by war. Underneath my Ar-Ramadi sweatshirt I now wear a pendant inscribed on one side with the Arabic word “Allah” and on the other side a portion of their sacred text, the Koran, a silent vigil, a silent prayer. Iraq, the people, and Iraq, the place, are a part of me now, as every war is for anyone who has ever been there, wherever “there” happens to be.

I wanted to stop and silently pay respect in front of the makeshift shrine. I was not just some passerby who felt bad about Americans dying. I had held those hands, too. I've lost count of how many soldiers' hands I've held. The wounded, the dead – I've looked into the faces of many of the now over 3,200 Americans killed. I saw them personally. I saw their bloody, broken bodies. I, in a sense, knew each one of them. I knew them by name. I said prayers over their lifeless bodies. I blessed them on the beginning of their journey home.

Yes, the peace rally moved me. I wanted to look. I wanted to stop. But I couldn’t. Not then; maybe later.

I found refuge in the restaurant across the street. I'm not a beer drinker; I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had a beer: once or twice on a college trip to Spain, maybe a few sips here and there from friends and then, of course, the two-beer ration at the recent Marine Corps birthday celebration in Iraq. I sat down, ordered my dinner and started looking at the beer selection. Hmm....I was thinking about Iraq. I thought about the Marine Corps birthday party. I thought about the beer. I talked with the waiter. I asked him about the peace rally and how late he thought it would go. I really wanted to stop and talk with them. I told him I was recently back from Iraq.

I shifted subjects and asked about the brewery selections, explaining my predicament as a novice beer drinker. He solved my problem by bringing me three small tasters on the house; they were all good. I better not like them too well, though, or my low-carb diet will pay the price. Maybe my problem is that I never drank good beer. Maybe it's that I've never had the occasion to really enjoy it.

Whatever the case, I sat at the restaurant and savored the raspberry-flavored brew, the pine tar ale, and the amber ale…and I thought about Iraq. I thought about the birthday party. I thought about a few of my marines who like beer too much. I worry about them now that they are home. My guess for them is that the images will sometimes be too much for them, too, whether in a photograph or in their memories. I wonder what they will think when they see the peace signs in a park. Will a makeshift memorial move them to the verge of tears so that they hurry by too?

I flipped through the pages of a tourist magazine I picked up on the way to the restaurant. I told myself I was interested in it. Looking at the real estate ads, I even ran some of the numbers to see if the properties were a good investment. But really, it was mindless activity. I was still thinking about Iraq, and I was thinking about the peace activists still gathered in the park across the street.

I ate and got ready to leave and found I had stayed too long; it was dark now and the rally was probably finished. Too bad. I really wanted to stop. I really wanted to look. I really wanted to talk. It was later now, but now it was too late…or was it? I looked around the restaurant. I saw firefighters in town for a seminar on wildfires; they reminded me of my marines and soldiers. I had a hunch, though, that some people from the rally had wandered over for dinner. I saw a couple who had just finished ordering and took a chance.

“Were you at the peace rally in the park?” I asked. Their affirmative answer opened an unexpected and interesting evening. They didn't mock me or spit on me – they welcomed me. We talked for a couple hours. And it led to more than one evening, in fact. I met with them again the next night, and they had brought their friends. Twelve of us gathered around the table to talk about war, to talk about peace; they listened to my stories about Iraq and looked at my photos. Amazing serendipities. Truly the goddess has a sense of humor.

Prescott boasts that it's “Everybody’s hometown” and for me, it is. The peace activists of Prescott welcomed me home.