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Every December of my childhood, there was one thing I looked forward to almost as much as Christmas morning itself: the Christmas play at Flemingtown Church.

I loved it. Every bit of it.

Most years, my role was pretty predictable. I was either a shepherd or a wise man—not because I was especially holy or particularly wise, but because I owned a robe! In a small country church, wardrobe logistics matter! If you had a robe, you were cast. And I had one—so there I stood, year after year, clutching either a staff or a box meant to represent gold, frankincense, or myrrh, trying to look reverent while scanning the congregation for my parents and grandparents.

The play was directed by my great aunt, Rita South. While the script varied slightly from year to year, the structure was always the same. It began with the birth of Jesus and ended with the resurrection. Looking back now, that was incredibly powerful. It wasn’t just a Christmas story; it was the whole story. The manger made sense because the cross was coming.

Every neighborhood kid seemed to be involved. If you lived nearby and could stand upright, you had a role. We practiced nearly every night during the week, and if I’m being honest, I remember more about those practices than I do the actual performances. The laughter. The whispered jokes. Trying—and failing—to stay serious. It was church, but it was also community, and it felt like family.

The performance itself was full of music—good, old-fashioned mountain Christmas music. Billy Gene Mullins served as the music director, and I can still hear his version of O Little Town of Bethlehem in my head. Even now, when I ask Alexa to play Christmas music, I usually ask for Appalachian versions. I’m not chasing nostalgia as much as I’m trying to get back to Flemingtown for a few minutes.

The play always ended the same way: the cast and the congregation standing together, singing Joy to the World. No spotlight. No stage separation. Just voices filling the church.

One year, though, my role changed.

That year, I was cast as The Little Drummer Boy.

This wasn’t a stand-still role. I was supposed to enter from the front door of the church and walk up the aisle while singing and playing a borrowed drum that was hanging around my neck by some sort of string that my mom rigged up. I would then finish on stage beside the manger. In my mind, it was Broadway. In reality, it was Flemingtown Church—but to me, it might as well have been Radio City Music Hall.

What the audience didn’t see was what it took just to make that entrance.

Before my cue, I slipped out the rear door, walked through the dark gravel parking lot (we had no streetlights) and climbed the old concrete steps that directly bordered Route 607. It was December, and it was cold—the kind of cold that goes straight through thin shoes and costume fabric. I opened the heavy doors with numb fingers, heart pounding harder than the beat I was supposed to keep.

Then the music started.

I walked down the aisle singing and tapping that drum as confidently as a nervous kid could manage. I don’t remember if I kept perfect time, but I'm sure I didn't! What I remember is the feeling—that mix of excitement, pride, and belonging that only comes from being part of something bigger than yourself.

Years later, when I started teaching, I found myself drawn back to that feeling. Every December, I made a list of Christmas plays my students were involved in, and I tried to attend as many as I could. Sitting in those pews, watching kids fidget on stage and forget lines, I realized why it mattered so much to me.

For a little while, I was back at Flemingtown Church.

Those plays weren’t about costumes or scripts or perfect performances. They were about a small church, a tight-knit community, and a great aunt who made sure every kid had a place in the story. They were about laughter during weeknight practices and learning—without even realizing it—that Christmas doesn’t end at the manger.

Merry Christmas to all of my readers!