Christmas Long Ago, Last Year & Now

I came into the world at Christmas almost two hundred years ago. The local newspaper trumpeted my arrival and people from miles around came to see me. I heard them "Ooo" and "Aaah" as they checked me over.

"Beautiful!"

"Perfect proportions"

"Solid and strong!"

I was dressed in the vibrant colours of the season that first night, and the builders couldn't have been prouder to show off their finest work. Everyone present was wearing their best clothes, and the new choir was in fine form. It was a very special occasion!

The fledgling community needed me then, so the committee had assembled a team of designers, carpenters and masons to bring me to life. They scratched on paper and sawed on wood for the better part of a year. The bricklayers patiently raised my walls, one double-bond layer at a time, working through the heat of summer. For Christmas was the goal, and there was still the roof to cover me before moving to the interior.

They just made it. Temporary chairs were brought in the week before Christmas, since the permanent oak pews wouldn't be ready for months. Nonetheless, I was fresh and new, the pride of our town.

By the following summer, I was truly complete, inside and out. The mayor officiated at my grand opening, followed by a big picnic in the grassy area out back. An overflow crowd admired every part of me that day and I heard enough words of admiration to last a lifetime.

But how long is a lifetime for a building? A person might expect to live seventy-five years or more, and still wish for a hundred. An oak tree can last much longer than that, but for a structure it's a different matter. I could expect to live for as long as I was useful. After that, my fate would would be uncertain. Fifty years? A hundred? A thousand? Bricks and mortar never know.

****

Those early years were happy ones- until recently the best. The town was growing by leaps and bounds, so every weekend new families gathered inside. Women in their finest clothes and bonnets clutched squirming children, urging them to behave for an hour or two. Their husbands checked pocket-watches regularly, eager to stand out in the cooling shade of the trees around me.

It was a busy time. I was important and cared for, the centre of people's lives for at least one day every week. In the summer, I was festooned with fresh flowers, especially when couples wed. Parents brought their newborns for blessings and celebration. There were sombre occasions too, when people grew sick and passed on.

As the town's affluence increased, people lavished me with gifts. They built a magnificent square tower along one side and hung it with a big brass bell to summon gatherings. Donations from prominent citizens paid for exquisite stained glass windows and painted murals. A hall was built on the grassy field out back so that church events could be held year round.

Growth meant other changes too. The first railroad brought big steam engines hauling freight across the centre of our small city. Another line followed, and then another. Soon, the place was criss-crossed by steel and those infernal smoke-belching, whistle-blowing machines. My red brick exterior blackened from the coal dust that coated everything.

Wealth created by all this commerce changed the neighbourhood around me. Small wooden homes were replaced by brick and stone edifices to house the 'Captains of Industry' and their families. Their fine horses and carriages clip-clopped along now-paved streets on their way to visit me, where these people proudly sat in the front rows.

It was easy to think that I would live forever. I was indulged. I had purpose. My place seemed to be firmly fixed right at the centre of society. My members had no doubts about their importance in the community, in the nation, or in the world for that matter. Certainly, I could expect to endure for a long, long time.

Many more Christmases came and went, but change is constant. For a half century things went on much as they always had in my neighbourhood. Sure, the trees grew taller and the faces changed as one generation followed another. But skilled tradespeople kept me in excellent condition, continually repairing, painting and polishing.

Then, gradually my part of the city began to change. The automobile played a big part in this, as the road network expanded and widened. Broader streets on my corner brought the pavement much closer to my walls. When sidewalks were added, I sat close to the cement and asphalt without my quiet buffer of trees and grass.

The horseless carriage meant that the wealthy could move out of the congested city-centre to new homes beyond. I lost some of my wealthiest patrons then, though the working people remained, living in close proximity to their jobs with the railways and in the shops. Big old homes were sometimes divided into rooming houses for my less affluent members.

My people and surroundings slowly became different, but I kept busy. Their marriages, births, celebrations, and deaths filled my hours. I felt a sense of purpose because they turned to me when distant events cast dark shadows across their lives. A world war saw young men leave and never return. Economic collapse put many out of work and left them in debt. Another war was as devastating as before.

Then, about half a century ago the biggest change of all occurred. People just stopped coming! Of course, there were still some who visited every week, and I continued on much like before. My choirs sang and the devoted prayed. The minister preached and we still celebrated Christmas and other special days. But there was a problem and it was gaining momentum.

The drip-drip-drip of a leaking tap became the steady flow of my departing membership! I noticed it especially with the young ones after they entered higher education. As soon as they could exercise some independence from their parents, they wouldn't come back willingly. It was all too dull to them.

Slowly but surely, more and more of my seats were empty as white hair and stooped backs became the dominant characteristics of my people. Nothing seemed to be able to stop the abandonment of the old ways. And that wasn't all that changed.

My neighbourhood wasn't the same anymore either. The city continued to grow, pressing the commercial core closer and closer to my boundaries. I was gradually being engulfed. Low-rent businesses sprung up next door, bringing problems with parking and sidewalk traffic to the area.

The first signs of graffiti were sprayed across my back walls, meaningless tags by frustrated artists who spread their initials like dogs spraying their territory. At first it was meticulously cleaned off; then it was painted over. Finally, my caretaker gave up and simply left it there.

By last Christmas, this steady decline seemed to have touched bottom. A small group of people age fifty or more were almost the only ones who remained. Marriages and new babies were a thing of the past, though funerals did continue. Services were less available: once a week at first, then every second week, until I was only open monthly. Most people had simply cast me aside.

This brought serious implications, none of them good. There was little money to keep me in good health; instead, I had to soldier on with outdated equipment and little maintenance. Vandalism increased because there was no-one around to watch over me. My only company for most of the month was the homeless seeking refuge beneath my eaves or in my alcoves. I wasn't the only one cold and lonely.

How long does a building last? I wondered if my time was coming to an end. Two days was all it would take to flatten me and clear the rubble. That's what I'd already seen happen to a few of the grand old mansions nearby.

****

Last Christmas something happened when things seemed to be at their worst. It occurred at the evening service and everybody in the small group attending noticed immediately. Just as the little choir began to sing traditional carols, a family came through the door, people unlike any other in attendance. They were in their mid- thirties, with three kids, ranging from a toddler to a girl about ten.

All eyes turned to watch them choose a seat. Who were they? And why had they come to this tired old place?

It was quiet in the church except for the croaking choir, valiantly doing their best. Then the assembled heard the young family break into song. The woman's voice was beautiful, and this spurred the choir to greater efforts. People turned to look, and some began to join in the familiar lyrics. Afterward, when everyone was leaving, a few stopped to chat with these curiosities.

"Welcome to our church. There haven't been young people like you here for some time."

"No? We've only moved nearby recently, and this seemed like a nice place...."

"We wish more young parents felt the same. But they don't come anymore. Our own kids won't even bring their families here."

"Well, we'll be back next month. And Merry Christmas to you."

I was surprised. Children visiting me was something from the past. Their smiles and sweet voices lifted my spirits, pulling me out of the funk that I'd settled into during the past dozen years. I looked forward to seeing them again. And I could tell that some of the old folk did too.

January is a very cold month here, and I felt the homeless huddle into any sheltered corner I had available. I saw them shiver and I heard them curse the chill that even a small fire or a bottle couldn't take away for long. Cardboard, scrap wood, ratty old sleeping bags- anything to build a shelter from the wind and snow was piled against my back walls, out of sight to most people. But some did take notice.

At the next service, I heard the new man introduce himself as Phil Bonhomme and his wife as Lillian. They say that walls have ears, and I listened as they chatted with people afterward.

"We're surprised at how few people attend this beautiful old place," she commented.

"Not many come downtown anymore. It's a rough neighbourhood."

"We saw that when we came in today. People cap-in-hand. Must be tough for them this time of year."

"Well, they keep visitors away, that's for sure. Nobody wants to run the gauntlet to come in here."

"Isn't there something the church can do for them?" Lillian asked earnestly.

"Better to ask what they can do for themselves!" one man acidly replied.

I hoped that things would be better with these newcomers. But I only saw them a few more times that winter before the end came. Men arrived to chain my doors and nail plywood across my windows. Large NO TRESPASSING signs warned that violators would be prosecuted. After that, no-one came anymore to cut back the bushes or pick up litter that blew in from the nearby shops and cafes.

There just weren't enough members left to financially support me anymore. Since the minister was retiring, the decision was made by authorities to close my doors. I wasn't useful anymore. My once-purposeful life seemed to be finished, as I sat empty and forgotten. Or was I?

One spring day when I was brooding over my grim fate, I saw Phil Bonhomme again, with a small group of people in tow. A couple of them wore yellow hardhats and carried tools. The former minister produced a set of keys to release the padlocks and open my front doors. For the rest of the day, they poked and prodded me, inspecting my tired frame and insides from top to bottom.

What was going on here?

They were back a few days later, then again at the end of the week. It was good to have visitors again, but I was plagued by dark thoughts. Were these demolition experts, probing me to find weaknesses to ease a tear-down? Were they salvage people, appraising everything of value that could be removed and sold? Or was there some other purpose?

Nothing more happened for another month, a reprieve from the wrecker's ball. Then one day some large flatbed trucks backed up to the front doors and workers with pry bars, saws, and hammers came inside. This was it- the beginning of the end. They quickly set to work tearing out all of the old oak pews which had filled my insides almost since the beginning. This could only mean demolition.

After they left, Phil was back, this time with different people. They rolled out large sheets of paper on the front table and pointed here and there as they examined the lines and shapes. I was confused. It sounded like they were planning to install something, not rip me apart like I feared. Then they were gone and apart from the occasional person who came to repair this or that, I was alone until late summer.

One day there were people thumping around on the roof, hammering with loud nail guns. Others came inside with cans of paint to spruce up some of my peeling woodwork. Lillian Bonhomme was directing them. At the same time, a few carpenters carefully removed the last vestiges of my religious fittings, rendering me thoroughly secular. I was just another ordinary old building now, and completely bewildered. What was happening to me?

I could only know what was close at hand, and had no idea how my fate was being decided beyond that. With a broader view, I might have seen Phil, Lillian, and other like-minded individuals plotting a useful path forward for me. They could see that I was still sound in body and that I was situated in exactly the right place to fill a new role. They knew there was a pressing need that I could serve. And they were all experienced and determined enough to get things done.

All through the autumn things around me sped up. Vehicles came and went regularly: workers, inspectors, Lillian and Phil, and others I'd seen before. Then one day when the weather was becoming colder, a moving truck pulled up and a team unloaded a mountain of chairs and tables.

Later that day, another truck delivered a refrigerator and stove, of all things, and electricians set to work upgrading some of my wiring where they were positioned. Then carpenters constructed counters and shelving. It looked like a kitchen taking shape.

It began to dawn on me that I wasn't going to be torn down after all!

****

Yet another Christmas is at hand- my two hundredth- and things are happening all around me. It is a hive of activity! Volunteers have been busy inside for hours, and now everything is ready.

Darkness falls before 5:00 o'clock at this time of year and it quickly gets cold outside. The front steps and sidewalk are filled with a small crowd of people, some reasonably well-dressed, others quite bedraggled. Some are young families with noisy kids; others grizzly-looking men sleeping rough in the dead of winter.

The sign outside says, "All Welcome at 5:00 PM", and many people have come.

Lillian Bonhomme opens the front door and invites the eager strangers to come in. I've never seen most of them before, except for some of the men who regularly huddle under cardboard against my walls. But I know why they're all here, so anxious to enter. It's almost like the old days when members flocked inside for special occasions.

They've all come for the hot supper just prepared in my new kitchen. Several of the old church ladies had been cooking and basting all afternoon, and kids from the local high school have joined to help out. Some set up the music player that belts out lively Christmas favourites. Others are still busy putting up the big Christmas tree in the corner.

Before long the happy crowd digs into plates of turkey and potatoes, rolls and vegetables. There is plenty. No-one will go hungry tonight. And this isn't just a one-off event. No, there'll be hot meals served regularly through the winter and beyond. Phil and Lillian have twisted arms and called in enough favours to secure commitments that will sustain this for a long while.

An hour later, all but the last stragglers have gone. They've returned to their little homes and basement apartments. Or, into their grimy sleeping bags atop heating vents or down in dirty stairwells. Life will be just as hard as it was before, but at least tonight they have full bellies. And they're welcome back, provided they're as civil and sober as tonight.

I wish I could talk to the Bonhomme's and their friends. I'd tell them more about the desperate people who sleep outside nearby, but maybe they already know? I'd urge them to take the next step. Why not repurpose my meeting room as a warm place for hot coffee? Think about renovating downstairs to create room for a half dozen to sleep during the winter.

Sure, it would be more complicated than offering a hot meal, but it seems so worthwhile to try. I'm willing to take this on because I've served people for two centuries. Now I'm ready to welcome these strangers inside where it's warm.

How long does an old building live? Like most people, it must feel purposeful, and be deemed useful- like I am again. I expect to be around longer now because I hold an important new place in some people's lives.

An hour later, everything is cleaned up and the volunteers are on their way home. They're feeling cheerful about what was accomplished today, and call out holiday greetings:

"Then I heard them exclaim as they drove out of sight.

Merry Christmas to all. And to all a goodnight."