Since a week after Sept. 11, 2001, the St. Louis Instead of War Coalition has gathered every Sunday evening on the steps of St. Francis Xavier College Church. With the corner of Lindell Boulevard and Grand Boulevard as their stage, the coalition members broadcast a message of peace and justice to whomever happens to drive or walk past.

That particular Sunday, I trekked outside the Village’s comfy bubble to partake in the candlelight vigil and discover a few alternatives to war.

I saw that a handful of activists had already formed a cluster on the church steps. White puffs of cold breath smoked from their mouths, like puffs of baby powder. The fresh layer of snow that had fallen the night before was already dirtied by car exhaust, muddy footprints and dog business. A violet-gray sky served as the backdrop for the church’s stone-washed fa?ade, brightened by the steeple clock’s amber glow. It was barely 7 p.m., but the night felt darker.

My roommate and I stood at a distance from the cluster and made awkward eye contact with a lady who appeared to be in charge. She approached us, cheap, battery-operated candle in hand, and asked if we were Saint Louis University students. Her mousy face was snugly tucked between a beige knit cap and a cheddar-colored fleece scarf with “INSTEAD OF WAR, JUSTICE” embroidered into it. Peering at us behind her thin wire glasses were two beady, pale-blue eyes, serenely framed by crows-feet.

“Thank you so much for coming,” she whispered modestly. With a caring smile, mouse lady extended a mitten-clad hand and welcomed us to join the crowd, which had grown during our brief interaction.

An eclectic mix of generations past and present were now scattered along the church steps: a 30-something metropolitan gay couple, some middle-aged feminist divorcees, a handful of seasoned veterans and some SLU students.

Attention shifted to the sidewalk before us as a bearded character plugged his mp3 player into a Crate amp, which rang out the tune of “I’d like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony …”

As the coalition’s weekly ritual began, a few more college students straggled in, filling gaps in the crowd. Two men carefully unrolled a banner that read, “Instead of war: Peace. Justice.”

The former Coca-Cola jingle came to an end, and the bearded man took the microphone. He bore a striking resemblance to Hagrid from the Harry Potter series; a miniature version of the bearded, larger-than-life character.

“Thank ya’ll for comin’ out tonight,” mini-Hagrid’s coarse voice bellowed over the speaker. He announced that this evening’s reflection song was “Peace Train” by Cat Stevens, because the coalition would soon make its way to the Mandate for Peace protests in Washington, D.C. The song’s static blast sputtered out of the weather-worn amp, surrounded by the artificial flicker of cheap plastic candles.

Some brought personalized candles for the vigil. A green-glass cylinder wrapped in mesh netting to protect the baby tea-light flame it contained. An inverted one-liter bottle cut in half served as a windshield. Anything to guard the fire within and keep it alive.

Waving off to the right of the crowd, a threadbare flag caught my eye. A granddaddy stood, holding it, looking more like a deflated version of Santa Claus than a war veteran. Bobbing to and fro with the tattered waves of the flag, his long white beard parted to expose two thin, red, singing slices of lip, Deflated Santa was rocking out to “Peace Train.”

For a moment, the scene felt like a weak re-enactment of the Vietnam peace protests that Deflated Santa and mini-Hagrid must have attended in their greener years. Now, decades later, both men were witnessing history repeat itself-in a world that ought to know better.

Next came an honorary moment of silence, save for the buzz of cars swishing past, a dozen horn honks and a few passers-by. A dirty white Toyota paused briefly in front of our crowd as a Bob Marley look-alike rolled his window down to wave a peace sign at us.

Among those who accidentally traipsed through our silent time was a pair of sorority sisters-one of whom had a phone growing out of her ear-cutely bundled-up in North Face jackets and Ugg boots.

Our emcee, mini-Hagrid, returned to his makeshift platform and opened up the mic to anyone with announcements. Like a human dinosaur, a woman with wearing weather-stained Reebox and a Barney-purple coat came forward. I soon discovered that Tina Busch-Nema-one of the 16 nonviolent protesters arrested at the Fort Benning Military Reservation last November-would have to muster the strength of a dinosaur to survive what she was about to endure.

“Thank you,” Tina began, “to those of you who have offered to take care of my kids and make meals for my husband if I have to serve jail time.” She extended an invitation to anyone who wished to attend a potluck dinner before her trial.

Next, Deflated Santa gave a quick commemoration. He struggled to speak the name of David, a 24-year-old from Galesburg, Ill., who died this week fighting in Iraq. After the soldier’s name crossed Santa’s thin red lips, a woman tapped a thick stick on a metal instrument. Its sound echoed out into the dark night.

A little wrinkled woman took the microphone and announced upcoming events, followed by three peace-inspiring quotes from other members of the crowd. Between each quote, the woman played her little instrument, as if to let the words reverberate and sink into our minds.

Mini-Hagrid plugged his mp3 player back into the Crate amp and put on his well-rehearsed ceremony’s closing tune: Sarah Thomsen’s “Turning of the world.”

I felt too young to be a part of this gathering of extraordinary individuals who had made such tremendous personal sacrifices in honor of their beliefs. Among them. I encountered an inspiring willingness to thank anyone who showed up in support of their cause. In the spirit of creative nonviolence, these brave souls opened their hearts to strangers like me with the welcoming appreciation of regular Sunday churchgoers.

Each had his or her own quiet, personal demonstration of peace. The two men holding the dove banner had strained their aging arms for half an hour. The quote readers had projected their voices to the public for a moment of collective contemplation. And that dear Deflated Santa man had waved his tattered flag with an aged rocker’s vengeance, as his personal contribution for peace.

As I bent to sign the list of attendees, mini-Hagrid towered over me and asked, “Are you a SLU student?” I nodded yes, as his weary eyes blinked. He quietly added, “Thank you so much for being here.”

His were eyes that had seen war firsthand. The kind of eyes that had witnessed Vietnam-pain, death, grief-and now, those eyes were watching the ignorant repetition of history unlearned.

I found it ironic that these veteran peacemakers were thanking me. They were the ones who had gone through hell to defend their beliefs. They were the ones actually facing imprisonment for their acts of non-violence.

And then, as nonchalantly as it had begun, the ceremony finished with Sarah Thomsen’s lyrical voice singing “and we will live in the echo of our dreaming.”

Jenna Steege is a senior in the College of Arts & Sciences.