It is September, 1992. I'm a first-year. I'm walking along the path that cuts diagonally across the New Yard, from Thayer South to the stairway leading up to the Union. The four people whom I know from high school are scattered somewhere behind me in the Old Yard, in dorms whose names all sound the same to me. I can't keep all the things I have to do straight in my head. There are placement tests and mandatory meetings, extracurricular open-houses and social events highlighted in the little first-year booklet I've been given. On my way to Parlor B, I think I'm lost.

I pray the day comes when I will know my way around, when buildings will have names, when I will recognize people in the Yard. Harvard seems awfully large and cold to me now. I don't even know my 9-digit I.D. number.

Someone says hello to me, greeting me by name. I look up from my "Notes for Freshman," amazed that another person here recognizes me. It is Mike Middleton, but I don't know him yet. This will be the first of countless times I'll see him walking through the Yard. This is a scene that is idyllically Harvard for me. But on that day, he looks like yet another student I've never seen before. He introduces himself, gives me directions to Parlor B, and we part. Later in the week, at the hazing meeting, I find out that he is my Senior Advisor--for now, that just means to me that he matched me up with my roommate.

My first year is a blur, of course, and Mike continues to identify every third first-year in the Yard by name. We start to call him "god" because he knows so much about us: all our names, our roommates, our neighbors, our high schools and home towns. There's something comforting in that.

Like many first-years, I have to see my Senior Advisor at one point. My first impression of Mike is of someone who is thoughtful and professional. He seems to understand you exactly the way you want to be understood. There's nothing to worry about, no misrepresentation or question of allegiance; you're always on the same side. Even if it's your problem alone, the solution becomes a joint one. The feeling he left me with after my first year was that if I was ever in trouble, there would always be Mike in the back of my mind to help me.

I sought his help a couple of times after I left the yard, and he became for me not another administrative advisor, but a trusted friend. Over many meals together in dining halls, I came to know the type of Harvard graduate I would like to be: someone whom others respect and admire, not for anything extrinsic, but for the quality of his work and for his compassion and kindness to others. Someone who is firm in his beliefs and values, and who conveys them not by preaching, but by setting an example that others want to follow. Someone who operates in the world of demanding professionalism, but who relates to others in a world of human feeling. Someone who incites loyalty and fondness by being a strong friend. Mike is all of these things; I wish I could be.

In his six years at Harvard, Mike has made friends and allies everywhere. When other people who know Mike talk about him, I am made aware of how many people he's helped and befriended, what a great impact he's had on so many of us. They all have stories of how he rescued them at the hospital or saved their careers, how they just love talking to him and how they'd do anything for him. I wish he could hear some of the things people say about him. But he would probably be modest, and hand a compliment right back to them.

Today I walk along that same path through the Yard, from Thayer to the steps leading to the Union. I love this place. Where once it was cold and impersonal, it is now a place with remarkable friends on a human scale. There is safety here. Next year, Mike is going to graduate school outside of Cambridge. For those who were lucky enough to come into contact with him, Harvard will lose something. To us, the sight of Mike walking through the Yard means that things at Harvard are right. It's people like him who personalize, give life to, and define institutions like ours. We'll miss you, Mike.

Patrick S. Chung's column appears on alternate Saturdays.