I opened the doors and took a step inside. As I did, the volume of the organ music rose a notch. A long, carpeted aisle bisected the auditorium, and a vaulted ceiling rose above it. Evening sunlight, tinted red by stained glass, cast long rectangles across the empty pews. An advent wreath hung on the pulpit, and unlit candles sat on the window sills. The only movements were those of a silver-haired woman rehearsing on the organ and an older fellow placing programs in hymnal racks. Neither noticed my entrance.

I spoke in the direction of the man. “Is there a service tonight?”

No response.

“Excuse me,” I said a little louder, “is there a service tonight?”

He looked up at me through wire-rimmed glasses, cocked his head, and cupped a hand behind his ear.

“I said, ‘Is there a Christmas service tonight?!’” I felt awkward raising my voice in the sanctuary.

“No, we don’t need a linen service, thank you. We wash our own towels.”

I chuckled to myself, and when I did, I noticed how good it felt and how long it’d been. “No,” I repeated, walking in his direction. “I was asking about the Christmas Eve service.”

“Hold on.” He turned toward the organist. “Sarah, can you hold up for a moment? We’ve got a salesman calling on us.”

Sarah obliged, and the man looked at me again. “There now, what did you say?”

I repeated the question a fourth time.

“You planning to come?” he asked.

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Good thing God was more convicted than you.”

“What?”

“God didn’t just give it thought, you know.

He did it. He came.”

Spunky, this guy. Short and square bodied. Not fat, but barrel chested. “Maintenance” was stenciled over the pocket of his gray shirt. He stepped out from the pews, walked up the aisle, and stood in front of me. As blue eyes sized me up, his stubby fingers scratched a thick crop of white hair.

“Been awhile since you’ve been in church?” His accent didn’t sound pure Texan. Midwestern, maybe?

I suppose I wasn’t cloaking my discomfort too well. It had been awhile since I’d been in a church. And I did feel awkward being there, so I sidestepped the comment.

“I came because of this.” I produced the photo. He looked down through his bifocals and smiled.

“My, the trees have grown.” Looking up at me, he asked, “Where you from?”

“Chicago. I’m a journalist.”

I don’t always say that, but the old fellow seemed to be grading me, and I felt I could use a few points. If I earned any, he didn’t say.

“You ought to be home for Christmas, son.”

“Well, I’d like to, but I have an assignment and . . .”

“And your work has you out of town on Christmas Eve?”

Who are you to grill me? I started to ask, but didn’t. Instead, I picked up a worship program and looked at it. “Yeah, being home would be nice, but since I’m here I thought I’d . . .”

“Six o’clock.”

“What?”

“The service. It starts at six.” He extended a hand in my direction. “Joe’s my name. Forgive me for being nosy. It’s just that a man away from his wife . . .”

“How did you . . .”

“Your finger. I can see where your ring was. Must have been recent.”

I looked at my hand and thumbed the line. Angry at Meg, I’d stuck my wedding band in my pocket on the plane. “Yeah, recent.” I shrugged. “Listen, I’ll be back at six. I’d like to meet the pastor. I’ve got some things to do now, though,” I said, putting the program back in the hymnal rack.

“What a lie,” I mumbled to myself as I turned. I had absolutely nothing to do and nowhere to go. Joe watched me as I walked down the aisle. At least I think he did. Only when I reached the foyer did I hear him whistling and working again. As I gave the auditorium one final look, Sarah resumed her rehearsal. I turned to go outside. The wooden doors were still stubborn. I paused on the steps, put on my cap, and looked around.