Stepping into my turn

I have been offering worship for the Protestant community weekly via Zoom this past year. I usually set up in the main sanctuary in Cochran Chapel, careful to include a background view of the beautiful space that is recognizable to many. Most Sunday nights, it is a casual gathering of a small group—students logging in from dorm rooms or home. Michael Belcher on the keyboard from home.

Sometime in the fall I relocated my perch to the balcony, which provided a sweeping vista of the entire chapel—even better.

As I came into the balcony, I ran into a wall of memories. I was a day student on a near-full scholarship. My family never felt comfortable participating in Andover events. My senior spring we had an argument the night of Baccalaureate. My parents did not want to come, and I had to be on campus early for rehearsal. I drove myself. They never came.

I played with the handbell choir that night from the balcony. After the program was over, I went back upstairs to pack up the bells. Music instructor Carolyn Skelton and I exchanged some sweet goodbyes. By the time I left, I was pretty sure I was the last one out. I sat on the steps to take in a view of the setting sun across the Great Lawn and I gave in to my emotions, feeling safely anonymous and alone. And then Barbara Landis Chase approached.

It was too late; I could not regain my composure that quickly. The head of school sat on the steps with me for a bit. I do not remember what she said. What I remember is her presence.

Twenty-three years later, I walk from a basement apartment in a dormitory named in her honor as I come and go from the chapel.