Appalachian Christmas Memories: Part Five

Christmas at the Little Church

Shared by Kelly from WV

Church Christmas wasn’t fancy, but it was steady. The little church would be full in a way it never was the rest of the year; coats piled on pew ends and babies passed from arm to arm. Someone always ran the wood stove too hot, so folks near the front fanned themselves while the ones in the back kept their coats buttoned. The piano was a little out of tune, but nobody minded.

The children practiced for weeks, whispering and fidgeting while waiting their turn. Some forgot their lines, some sang too loud, and some just waved at their families from the stage. The grown-ups smiled through all of it. Afterward, we’d gather in the fellowship room for cookies and paper cups of punch, standing close and talking longer than usual. It wasn’t about the program being perfect. It was about showing up together, year after year, and knowing Christmas had come because the church doors were open and the lights were on.

Candlelight Service

Shared by Chistina

I remember the candlelight service more than any sermon. We packed into that little church so tight our coats actually touched, folks scooted down the pews to make room for one more. The heat was uneven like it always was, warm near the stove and colder by the doors, and you could really smell the wool coats and pine after the church doors were closed

When the lights were dimmed, everything seemed to slow down. You could hear the small, familiar sounds, a baby settling, someone clearing their throat, the old wooden floor creaking. The flame was passed one candle at a time, careful and steady, down each row. Faces looked softer in that light. I remember thinking about who wasn’t there that year and knowing most everyone else was thinking the same thing.

When we sang, nobody tried to outdo anyone else. We just sang, voices plain and honest, filling up that little Appalachian church. We held the light until the last verse faded and the candles were blown out. Walking back into the cold afterward, it felt like we’d carried something with us, something shared, something that stayed long after Christmas was over.

Christmas Clothes

I remember how Christmas clothes were laid out days ahead of time, set aside where nobody could mess them up. Mama would smooth them out one more time before bedtime, reminding us not to wrinkle a thing. We went to sleep knowing exactly what we were wearing the next morning, even if it wasn’t new, it was our best.

That morning, getting dressed felt almost as important as opening gifts. Buttons were checked, shoes wiped off, and hair brushed until it laid just right. We might have been headed nowhere special, but wearing our Christmas clothes made the day feel different. Years later, I still remember how it felt to stand there dressed up, knowing Christmas had officially begun.

The Empty Wrapping Paper

Shared by Karen

By the end of Christmas morning, the floor would be covered in torn paper and empty boxes. Mama always told us to leave it for a little while, just so we could look at it. It was proof the morning had happened, that something special had passed through the house.

Eventually, the paper got gathered up and the boxes stacked, but for a short time everything stayed just as it was. I remember standing there, taking it all in, knowing that feeling wouldn’t last. Even now, whenever I see a bit of crumpled wrapping paper, it takes me right back to that moment when Christmas was still sitting in the room with us.

Appalachian Christmas Memories: Part Six