It’s been 19 months since the Rothko Chapel was last open to the public.

Counted among Houston’s iconic landmarks, the chapel closed in March 2019 for extensive renovations and reopened Thursday. It now boasts new landscaping, a new lighting system, the addition of the Suzanne Deal Booth Welcome House where the chapel’s retail selection now lives, and a timed ticketing system to avoid crowding during the COVID-19 pandemic.

The reopening faced delays, first related to construction and then due to the pandemic. People seemed ready to come back — I had somehow managed to snag the last ticket available for Sept. 24 just two days before. exp-player-logo Read More

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“With the stresses of the day, and healthcare issues and the uncertainties, and the social unrest, I think people are just glad to have a place where they can come again,” the chapel's executive director David Leslie told me.

We spoke on a bench in view of Barnett Newman’s “Broken Obelisk” while a group was busy drumming nearby behind the trees.

The Rothko Chapel has always been a spiritual place for Houstonians, religious or not, meant for contemplation in solitude alone or with others. Many who visit are moved to tears.

“The invitation is there in the sense of come as you are, come as who you are,” Leslie said. “I think there are those who come seeking a place for solace, a place to meditate, looking for hope... I think it’s very emotional for people because very rarely do you get that invitation.”

“The hope is that someone who may be very devout in their own religious tradition can sit in company with somebody who has no religious commitments,” Leslie said.

I was hoping for this too.

It’s been more than six months since I’ve gone to church or heard a sermon or sat with a congregation. It’s hard to find a church when you move to a new city during a pandemic. Like many, I'm sure, I missed silently sharing something meaningful with others.

After obtaining my physical ticket at the Chapel’s welcoming house, I entered with a few others at 2 p.m. for my allotted 30-minute slot.

The difference in atmosphere inside is immediate, with library-like silence pressing around until one walks into the Chapel itself, where the room suddenly opens up to 14 massive canvases under natural light. Looking up at the skylight in the middle of the structure, it felt like I was standing at the bottom of a well.

I was too nervous to approach Mark Rothko’s paintings, as if it would be disrespectful to engage with them too closely, like approaching the pulpit in the middle of a sermon. Not completely sure of what to do with myself, I bounced around for a bit before settling in the front.

I glanced up, taking in the brush strokes and the subtle changes in the black paint across the canvases. I remembered again how long it had been since I had sat with others in a place like this.

I stopped focusing on what I was supposed to feel and began focusing on just feeling in general. So much of the past few months had been spent with gritted teeth, muscling through another day, week, month despite everything happening. I was tired of buckling down. I wanted to feel something, even if it was for just 30 minutes before walking out and continuing on.

And slowly, I felt some of my tension begin to unspool.

I didn’t cry. I clumsily prayed and sang hymns in my head, spending most of my 30 minutes with my head bowed and eyes closed. I didn't focus on those around me, except for being grateful that they were there.

And when an employee’s phone went off, signaling it was time for us to leave, I gritted my teeth under my mask and walked out — but now, with a familiar feeling of comfort and hope for what was to come.