I climb the narrow stairs and give the belfry rope 14 sharp tugs. Outside, the bell’s tones float over the noise of traffic on Franklin Street, the voices at the fraternity house across the street, the crunch of leaves under hurried feet. The noises rush in, then stop, as the doors open and close to admit a few worshipers. Or sometimes the doors don’t open at all, and in the chapel’s antique quiet I read the service alone, except for the presence of God.

The dark of the November afternoon lifts as I read Christ’s promise: “I am the light of the world.” The service continues, alternating readings from the Daily Office with a Psalm and traditional prayers: “As our eyes behold the vesper light, We sing thy praises, O God.” In this setting the Apostles’ Creed becomes not just ritual utterance but an affirmation of our faith that God will deliver us from eternal darkness into life everlasting.

After the Creed come the prayers: for a specific church in the Anglican fellowship, for those in our parish who are sick or troubled, for those who have died - and in these past months, with the threat of war looming, - “For our Enemies,” that we all “may stand reconciled” before God. The service closes with collects, always including the Collect for the Presence of Christ that asks Him to watch over those “who work, or watch, or weep this night.”

Together the little congregation and I repeat the General Thanksgiving; then I read a benediction. As they disperse or remain for a few more prayerful moments, I turn off lights and record the service - the date, my name, the rite used, number of those present - in the worn notebook in the old vestry. I look at the blank pages it contains, records yet to be filled of Evening Prayers for years into the future. And I think of the pages it might have contained, records of prayers said by countless parishioners for well over a century. This quiet service, at the end of busy workdays and in the middle of a clamorous world, offers to all who come moments of communion with each other, with believers past and future, and with the “Father of all mercies.”