The old, clapboard church house had been standing for almost two hundred years. It was faded by the sun and grayed from an absence of paint. If walls could talk they would tell of Baptist hymns, of long, weeping, soulful prayers of repentance, wedding vows and eulogies. There had never been any stained glass windows; they would have been more than the church folks in those days could afford and besides, the clear glass allowed them to look out and admire God's beautiful creation. Most of those clear windows were now dirty or broken.
It had been many years since anyone worshiped there. A new brick building had housed the worshipers for sixty years. The old church stood abandoned and decaying. There had been talk of demolition but some weren't willing to pay the contractor's price. So the old church just stood there, aging more every year, no longer remembered in its prime by anyone. Most of those who died in the last sixty years were buried in new plots at the new church. Those who died before that were planted beside the old church in the overgrown graveyard.
My Mama and Daddy didn't remember anything about the old church. Gramma and Grampa used to tell me stories about the people who met there and their lives but they'd been gone a long time. Gone to their reward, as the country folks still say.
Most people probably never thought about the old church. It was off the main road on an old country road in the middle of a grove of oak trees and straggly pines. I had to walk to high school everyday weekday from September through May and my route took me right past the old Church. It fascinated me, that rundown, almost falling down, old house of worship. Sometimes I'd stop for a while, close my eyes and just listen.
I would swear I heard singing coming from the old building.
Around Christmas was the time that was most magical for me. I imagined myself as a Bethlehem shepherd being visited by heavenly angels or being an angel visiting the shepherds. If I stood quietly near the old church I could hear the singing of Christmas carols. Not the jazzy upbeat Christmas songs of modern times. They were singing the old fashioned carols that reached into my heart and made me thankful for the Bethlehem Babe. I had never heard more beautiful singing before nor have I heard it since. As I listened I felt goosebumps and soon my own voice was joining them in “Silent Night.“
It was late December and the last day of school before the winter break. We got out half a day that day and I hurried down the road to the old church. There was no singing that day. I decided to tour the graveyard. Most of the weeds were dead due to the freezing weather and light snow so I'd have a clear view of the names on the gravestones. I walked reverently through the light snow covering the old graves. There were many family names I didn't recognize. Maybe those families died out or left to live somewhere else. I did know most of the names. They were the family names of our neighbors, the merchants in town, the carpenters and plumbers. They were familiar names, respected names. I decided I'd do something special for those families for Christmas. I'd even include the names I didn't know in hopes someone would know who they were and where they lived.
I pulled a notebook and pencil out of my backpack. I wrote down all the sur names I could find. It was starting to get dark. It was December the 21st the shortest day and longest night of the year. I put the treasured names in my backpack and hurried home. I had a lot to do before Christmas Day.
That night I stayed up when the rest of the family were sleeping. I was so happy I had paid attention in typing class because I had a lot to type that night. The computer was a blessing; I could easily erase and retype any errors. This had to be perfect. I searched online and found the lyrics to two dozen of the old fashioned Christmas carols. I created a book with beautiful nativity pictures on the cover and interspersed on the pages. I typed the carols in the book and when it was finished I printed out seventy of the books each one had one of the family names on the cover.
The next day I showed Mom the books. She had tears in her eyes when she offered to drive me to each house to deliver them. Each house we stopped at, we were welcomed and many of our neighbors had tears on their faces when I gave them the book. I asked if anyone knew the missing families. Those who did took that family's book with a promise to deliver it to them in person or by mail.
That Christmas Eve many of us gathered in the brick church.
The pastor said, “Tonight we are going to remember those who have gone to Heaven before us. We are going to honor them with the old carols they taught us years ago.
The congregation sang so beautifully and when they sang, “Silent Night, Holy Night,“ I could hear the voices of those of the old church blended with those of the new.
What a wonderful thing you have done for those families!!! You have made a very special Christmas for them all with the kindness and compassion inside your heart!
You wrote a tearjerker for me. It wasn't the way that I thought it would be, but it was just as sweet, perhaps sweeter. I sensed that there was a lot of truth in this fictional story because you are such book creator, extraordinaire. I could see you easily hand making 70 books when you're in high school well before all of the modern electronic devices that allow us to publish in our own home. But she did mention the typewriter was a computer.
We had on our block in grade school in the 50s, what looked like an abandoned synagogue on the corner across from the delicatessen that looked like your picture. In the overgrown narrow space between the building and the neighboring properties, about 2 feet wide, grew some old plum trees with sumptuous fruit to enjoy.
The Old Church Building
