Nervous energy danced around the classroom located just off the sanctuary. For many of us, this was the first time we had been allowed inside the adult Sunday school classroom. Kids were almost always situated downstairs out of respect for our elders, who had trouble navigating the stairs on aging knees.
Inside the classroom, several of the women from church hovered over us, adorning us with red capes with a black bow that cinched the costume in place. Each had been handmade by expert seamstresses like Thelma, who had attended this small church all her life. The 60s were homemade times; a time when every woman knew how to sew, how to create clothing for their children with a quality that exceeds anything one can purchase today. Every man knew the value of his hands: how to wield a hammer, lay a brick, fall a tree, build a church. This was a church constructed on donated land. A church that, like many other small rural churches, struggle to keep the doors open in 2025 during a time when grandiose Christmas Cantatas and Pageants are the norm. Atop the mountain, inside the wood-paneled-walls of a building that has never once had a mortgage, children giggled nervously. We had practiced for this moment. We were ready, and in case we weren’t, if we just kept our eyes on Miss Faye, she would lead us through this Christmas Play without a hitch.
On any other Sunday, the choir loft was an adults-only affair. Primarily because there wasn’t enough room to cuss a cat over in the corner that had been set aside for the singers and Joanne, our piano player. At best, there may have been room for fifteen people. The church these days is rarely packed with parishioners like it was back then. Being situated in a remote area in the far western tip of Swain County meant most-everyone attended, except those who had backslidden. We didn’t have the excuse that we could “stay home and watch the service online” like we do now. This brick and mortar building had raised three generations of Winchesters.
With red capes draped over our shoulders, one of the teenagers eased the Mary costume over her dress and wrapped the baby doll that would symbolize baby Jesus in a swaddle blanket. Joseph followed her lead and took hold of a walking stick. The angels donned their white robes and adjusted haloes constructed of bent coat hangers wrapped in gold tinsel. There was no grand light display. No spotlight on the stage; just tall white candles lit in the window ledge and lights dimmed. The church had no expensive audio visual equipment; only the sound of a piano that needed tuning and the intermittent coughing from those who had packed the church. Back then, only the affluent owned cameras. There are no photos of us that I know of, and the few images mother captured of me as a child are blurry or missing a portion of my head. This lack of childhood photos is why I take so many photos and ignore the grumbles of family.
Miss Faye opened the door and as we left the classroom, Delona placed a wrapped present in the hands of the younger kids, those with speaking parts. The congregation settled in, unaware that pasted to the back of the wrapped-presents were the words we were supposed to say, just in case the devil snatched away our voice with a horrid case of stage fright. This was the only time we would stand in front of an audience. It was dark, and scary, and the excitement we felt inside the classroom had disappeared the moment we filed into the sanctuary.
By comparison, the church I currently attend encourages little ones of all ages to stand before the congregation each Sunday and belt out a tune with the adults. No formal training required, the kiddos do not even need to know how to read. There isn’t a lick of stage fright on the faces of the children at Old Savannah in Sylva, North Carolina. They are confident with a self-esteem you rarely see in children these days.
As Christmas plays go, the story is one that has been retold throughout the generations. Mary was pregnant with a miracle. Joseph had the chance to set Mary aside, but took her as his wife and as the time drew near for her baby to be born they were required to made a long journey, on foot, to Bethlehem for Cesar had declared the first ever census. The story is told of Mary riding the back of a donkey, but did she really, or is that speculation? Regardless, Mary wasn’t traveling to a spa. This wasn’t a trip of comfort and joy filled with yuletide sweets to nosh on along the way. This was a hard journey. They were tired and hungry, and then the baby came.
In Appalachia, most of the babies were baby dolls. The Appalachian Christmas play lasted about 20 minutes, just long enough for the ink to fade from Joseph’s sweaty hands, for he didn’t have a wrapped gift with a cheat sheet facing him. Fortunately, Joseph played a minor role. The highlight came when the children made their way into the choir loft where they sang, Silent Night, Holy Night, all is calm, all is bright. Followed by Away in a manger, no crib for a bed; and finally Joy to the World! Let Heaven and Nature sing!
The experience drew to a close when the deacons of the church entered the congregation carrying brown paper bags which they distributed to all in attendance. These traditional Christmas Treat bags ensured every person received a gift, just like the baby Jesus who had been sent as a gift for a fallen world. These bags—or pokes, as most folk called them—held an orange (that had been procured from a band member who had sold oranges as part of the annual band fundraiser). There was a candy cane, an apple, and a variety of nuts: an English Walnut, Brazil nut, and a nut that looked like a peach pit. Mind you, these were still in the shell, for every family in Appalachia owned a hand-held metal nut cracker and a tiny metal pick that resembled what the dentist used to clean tarter away from our choppers. Those without a nutcracker simply liberated the goody inside using a hammer and a stone they’d found in the creek with a nut-sized indentation. Soon, the heady fragrance of oranges filled the room as hungry children and adults tore into the peel. Fresh fruit was a luxury for Appalachians in the wintertime. Sadly, for many it still is. Many adults would forgo a Christmas present so their children could have new shoes or one new toy. The treat bag was their only gift; extra bags were given to those with the most need.
Modern-day Cantatas and Pageants are now stage productions with newborn babies cast as baby Jesus, and the minister offering himself as the adult-Jesus. There are light shows, costume changes, and-to my surprise, for I had been sheltered here in the hollers of Appalachia—these holiday extravaganzas often include the birth, the betrayal, the death, and resurrection of Jesus. These productions take months to practice, and typically last a couple hours. We now have live nativity shows, some that you can drive through. There are camels and donkeys, and multiple ways to celebrate the birth of Jesus. I highly recommend experiencing all of them, for there is no wrong way. However, back in the church that raised me, they still tell the simple story of Mary, Joseph, and that sweet little baby Jesus who was born in a manger for there was no room for him at the inn. And if you don’t come for the story, come for a Christmas treat bag, because everyone who attends leaves with one.