Though we've had almost five years together, I haven't seen much of you lately. Except for quick glimpses while riding my bike through the Quad between classes, I rarely have time these days to marvel at your ornate arches or take stock of your myriad admirers.
I first noticed you in my parents' wedding pictures, taken in October 1975. My smiling, super-thin mother with shiny, black hair and blue eyeshadow, arm in arm with my father, who looks exactly as he does now. Although they weren't married within your Romanesque walls (recent immigrants from Taiwan, they hadn't made enough friends to begin to fill your 1,250 seats), they wanted to capture the beginning of their life together in front of the building that so often symbolizes my father's alma mater.
Our relationship became serious the summer after my freshman year. We had a twice-daily date: in the late morning around 11:15 and again in the afternoon at 3:30. But I rarely came alone. As a campus tour guide, I'd often bring with me a group of 20 or more -- tourists, prospective students and their families, a group of Buddhist nuns or Asian businessmen. Having walked backward in the hot sun, talking as I led the group from the steps of Memorial Auditorium, I was grateful for your cool shade. I was proud to show you off, always pausing a few minutes in front to admire your imported Venetian mosaic facade before entering. And once again, on the way out -- this time to step on the brass class plaques starting with 1892.
As we filed into your cruciform interior, you'd sometimes greet us with melodies floating from one of your three pipe organs. Occasionally, the stops and starts of a student practicing jolted our ears, but the tourists always seemed to enjoy it. A few asked if the music was a recording. Once inside, the chatter hushed as the group turned to marvel at your 8,631 organ pipes, your redwood ceilings, your art nouveau chandeliers.
Some days, the only light came from the sunshine breaking through your stained-glass windows. I'd always point out my favorite window, the first on the right as we entered. The only one not based on previously created artwork, it depicts Leland Jr.'s ascension into heaven. I understand he died from typhoid fever, but they never should've made little Leland's face that sickly shade of green.
You welcomed me and my entourage even as other visitors sat in your oak pews, their heads bowed in prayer. You didn't seem to mind those in my group who brandished disposable cameras hoping to capture Jane Stanford's inscriptions on your sandstone walls, a mosaic angel smiling down from your dome, the depiction of Rosselli's Last Supper at your altar.
But every once in a while, especially on Saturdays, you shut your heavy doors to us as brides and grooms paraded down your aisles. You host more than 200 weddings a year for couples with a Stanford connection -- students, alumni, faculty, staff and their children. You're so much in demand there's even a waiting list for summer nuptials. Sometimes I returned with patient visitors at the end of the day, after as many as five couples had said their vows in back-to-back ceremonies.
Oddly enough, I never called on Sundays. Although I consider myself spiritual, I have not attended any of your four religious services -- Ecumenical Protestant, Roman Catholic, Black Church or Taize Worship. Ironically, it was the Dalai Lama speaking from your pulpit that first brought us together during my senior year in high school, when I came with hundreds of others to hear him speak. You didn't know then how often you would see me over the next four years.
As a freshman, I occasionally visited by myself during tumultuous times, having run through the night from my one-room double in Wilbur Hall to seek comfort in your presence. Those were the only occasions we were ever alone -- and even then, the odd raccoon would scurry past.
Gradually, though, we met less frequently as I gave up guiding tours for editing the Daily and serving as resident assistant in West Lag. Our scheduled appointments gave way to spontaneous encounters. I'd drop by in the dead of night with a partner and sit in front of your softly glowing mosaics to discuss the "State of the Relationship" -- usually the culmination of a long, chilly walk.
As my time here draws quickly to a close, your illuminated facade lights up memories of the last five years -- from my freshman Full Moon on the Quad kiss to a tipsy reunion with old friends at last spring's Senior Dinner on the Quad. To me, you represent beauty, peace, strength. I admire your inclusive religious philosophy, your elaborate ornamentation -- and your will to survive two major earthquakes and evolve.
In several months, we must go our separate ways -- perhaps to meet again if I decide to spend the small fortune it costs to get married in an old friend's presence. Though the $1,800 price tag includes four sessions of pre-marital counseling, I may choose just to include you in my wedding picture as a source of strength and stability for the years ahead.
Tracy Jan, '98, MA '99 (sociology) is an intern at Stanford.
