The old church building stood tall and a little weathered. White clapboard siding. Slender windows in sets of three on the front and both sides, a simple arch at the top of each one. The massive oak which tirelessly stood watch over the front entrance for most of our lives is now reduced to a forgotten stump.

If there could have been anything awe-inspiring to a young boy, this was the place. Two sets of steps on the front corner at a right angle to each other led up to the heavy double doors on each side of the bell tower. Small hands and spindly little arms had a tough time swinging the weight of the doors on the hinges. He’d never seen anything so tall in all his life.

Inside the entry was a small square foyer, though the boy had no idea what a foyer was in his mind. High above there was a small square hole in the ceiling.

“What’s that for?” he asked his mama.

“There used to be a rope that came down through that hole from the bell in the top of the tower. We used to pull on the rope to ring the bell to tell folks that church was about the begin.”

“Is the bell still there?”

“No. We use chimes now.”

“What are chimes?”

“Let’s get inside. We’re gonna be late.”

The swinging doors to the sanctuary reminded the boy of the saloon doors he’d seen on TV westerns, except they went all the way to the floor, and they had a glass window at just the right height for adults, and they were solid wood, and they were tall. But other than that, he could imagine that John Wayne would approve.

This just happened to be a Sunday night in December. Though it wasn’t fully dark outside yet, the lights inside made the windows look pitch black against the overcast twilight outside. Some of the men were standing around the gas heater in the back of the sanctuary. He gave small handshakes to each of them.

The wooden floor in the sanctuary gave up its familiar sound. Thumps and creaks, even under his little steps. The sound of the piano filled the room with the melody of Christmas.

In all his grown-up years, the boy has never seen another sanctuary quite like this one. Though the large cavernous room was mostly square, the dark wooden oak pews were set in curved rows, the shorter ones in the front near the platform, each row getting longer as they stretched toward the back of the room. There were four sections, each one you might call a little pie shaped.

The floor sloped from the rear to the front with carpet aisle runners between the pews. The floor beneath the pews, however, was polished wood, or was more or less polished at some time in the past. Little children could almost slide under the pews.

Our young boy discovered once upon a time that if he sat near the back during the church service and if he laid a glass marble on the floor and he let go of it with a gentle push, said marble would roll all the way to the front row. Sometimes it would make the long journey without hitting anything just to rest quietly against the edge of the carpet. Sometimes it would get stuck beside a shoe. Occasionally, it would bounce off a heel.

After the service was over, he would make sure no one was looking and gather up all his marbles.

The slope of the floor was not steep, just barely noticeable really. So, the roll was a slow and rather quiet roll. Most of the time, just to be safe, he sent off his marble during the singing to take advantage of the noise drowning out the sound of his game.

Much to the boy’s dismay, the marble game only survived a few weeks. The day one marble got kicked, the game ended. The kick came just as the last note of “When We All Get to Heaven” died in the air. The ricochet off the end of the pew sounded like a 22 long rifle, which made the boy wish he could be called to heaven. Said boy’s mama did a pocket check before church from that day forward.

All that to say that the look and feel and sounds of that old building made a lasting impression on the boy. If he closes his eyes, he can still hear the oscillating fans mounted to the walls near the windows. He can see the opaque light globes hanging from the ceiling. He can feel the warmth and sense the memories of his youth.

So, it’s the Sunday night before Christmas. The boy shakes the hands of the men by the heater. He knows what the evening holds and can hardly wait. He finds a pew where his friends are sitting down front. No one ever sits “down front” unless there are sins to confess at the end of a service.

But tonight is different.

There are songs to sing first. Then a sermon to endure. It seems to the boy that the service will never end soon enough so they can get on to what he considers the real business of the night.

Finally, the preacher gives him hope. He stands up front and speaks the words the boy has been waiting for.

“Well, it’s that time of year when we have a special guest come visit with us from the North Pole.”

Churches today would have a hissy fit if Santa came to visit the kids on a Sunday night in the sanctuary. You’d think Santa was first cousin to the guy in the other red suit whose name is spelled with the same letters but in a different order. I’m not sure how Old St. Nick got such a raw deal.

Anyway, the preacher teased the children on the front row without mercy. Questions about why they were on the front row, why they were so excited, and what would happen if our “special guest” got lost and couldn’t find his way here.

Finally.

“I think I hear a clatter coming from behind that door.” He pointed to the side door that led to the fellowship hall.

“I hear jingle bells. Do you hear them?”

Our boy cheered and jumped up and down as Santa came through the door. He didn’t care that his suit was a little loose. He didn’t really care that Santa’s brown dress shoes showed beneath the fake black boots. He wasn’t worried that his beard hung crooked, or that he looked and sounded a lot like Mr. Jim Ridgeway.

What mattered was that the jolly old guy came bringing gifts of joy. Every child received a sack with an apple and an orange and candy canes and nuts and hard candy and bubble gum.

“Ho, Ho, Ho!” Santa shouted. His white glove hand waved in the air. “Merry Christmas.”

And it was a Merry Christmas. It was the best Christmas.

I promise.

I happen to know the boy who was there.