Photograph by Daniel Kind
The First Presbyterian Church on 6400 S. Kimbark Avenue is arguably the oldest continuously operating institution in Chicago. Its towering Gothic Revival cathedral has overlooked Woodlawn and Hyde Park since 1927. The structure’s thick stone walls harbor nearly a century of community history, illuminated when the sun’s rays shine through its stained glass windows.
I can feel my bones resonate with the muted chimes of a faraway bell. Motes of dust suspended in red, blue, and green beams refracted by stained glass fall on rows of empty pews, patiently waiting for evening hymns. Notes scrawled in the margins lay unseen inside the dull red maws of faded, tattered tomes: one on each pew, but not the sixth. Their leader, more battered than the rest, perches open-mouthed on the pulpit. When I place my hands on the ivory of the grand, jet-black piano, the key sounds off, proudly incorrect. The sound crescendos into the air, fights, wins against the incessant bell. My bones no longer resonate. The instrument is dark but not dark enough. The mosaic light bounces off, reflected by mirror by mirror by mirror. My eyes deceive me. No, my eyes dip into a pool right above my lap. If I reached my finger to tap its surface, the puddle would ripple, its waves wrinkling the wayward light. I sit still, holding my breath, and dive into the pond, gliding along its surface, slicing my skin against the sharp rays of light.
Pulling myself out, gasping for air, cut up and bleeding, I sit on the edge of the piano. My shivering body is chilled by a whistle of air emanating from an opening in the glass. The doors are shut, but the outside seeps in, refreshing the stale air of unilluminated corridors. I’m greeted by the shrill sound of the wind, beckoning me to explore. One foot in front of the other, each step echoes. I step as quietly as possible, tip-toeing along the nave of the building. Faintly, I hear my feet patter on the wooden floor. The atmosphere looms over me; I can feel the history of this place weighing on my shoulders. How many children, grudgingly dragged to Sunday services, sat bored on the faded fabric of these pews? What gossip was whispered furtively from a pious brother to his skeptical sister? Which giggles of anxious paramours or wails of grieving sons did this sanctuary conceal? These walls tell stories, they say, yet for me, today, they remain eerily silent.
After I tread deeper into the obscure rooms of the church, I encounter a small room filled with books and overturned chairs as my nose is accosted by the distinct odor of old paper and rotting wood. My eyes are drawn to a pale white page hanging out of a yellowed encyclopedia. Peeling it from its trap, I find a near-illegible cursive scrawl addressed to one “Rev. Thomas.” It begins, “I’m sorry.” An apology? I can make out about every fifth word: “mom,” “never,” “stop,” “wish.” It’s signed “Love you, Isaiah.” A brother? A son? A lover? Only they knew. This is what remains: illegible and vague. Rev. Thomas and Isaiah, distilled into this crumpled sheet, their true forms obliterated by time. I feel unbearably lucid. It’s my own thoughts that overwhelm me; the unrelenting torrent of sonder is oppressive. When I shut my eyes, I feel my throat tighten, and I want to cry out to Isaiah. Warm breath hisses from my mouth, betraying my focus. In the distance, from some other dark corner of the church, footsteps rattle. Note in hand, I return to the main hall. The light is orange now, but it still reflects gorgeously off that grand piano, beseeching me to take another dip. I ignore its call and set the note on top, obscuring the reflection, interrupting its dance. Quickly now, I stride toward the exit, the arched walls racing past me, echoing steps ringing in my ears. I push open the thick wooden door. The light is blinding.
