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NTIL RECENTLY, WAL-MART WAS the only place that celebrated Christmas before me. You see, Christmas is hands down my favorite holiday, and in Michigan, where I grew up, snow was an essential ingredient to a complete Christmas.

However, I currently live in Texas, and I find it somewhat more difficult to enter into the festive spirit. "I'm dreaming of a brown Christmas" just doesn't have the same ring to it.

But this year my holiday cheer got a jump-start in a beautiful old church in Harlem. The Sunday after Thanksgiving I spent the day at the Ephesus Seventh-day Adventist Church for the taping of the NBC broadcast The Greatest Gift.

Three things I'll remember most about the pretaping: the cosmetics, the cables, and the catering. I've never seen so many shades of foundation. I've never seen so many miles of cable; its tentacles spread to the audio room, the makeup room, the sanctuary, and into a room whose only purpose seemed to be to hold more cables. And, of course, the catering. No Adventist gathering is complete without the standard Vega-Link spread sandwich (complete with a spicy little kick I love).

12:05 p.m.—I stick my head outside the church and do a double take. With 90 minutes to go until the taping, a line of people waiting to enter the church is already halfway around the block. These poor souls are trying their best to look festive for Christmas, but Jack Frost isn't exactly nipping at any noses.

12:30—She sits alone in the far reaches of the church. There on the top floor in the farthest corner sits Melodie Homer, widow of one of the Flight 93 pilots who died in a field in Pennsylvania on September 11. Today's a long day for her. I talk with her briefly. She's worried about making it through the reading. December 23, one year ago, the couple dedicated their baby.

Today was a long day for others, too. The Maranatha Junior Choir left Massachusetts at 5:00 a.m. for the four-hour drive to Harlem. Actually, preparations for this day started more than a month ago, when the choir from Brockton, Massachusetts, began rehearsing.

1:00—Back in the catering services area. Across the room a group of individuals directly affected by the events of September 11, 2001, will be reading the Christmas story. Two people, strangers until just a few days ago, are now sharing a joke like lifelong friends; another nervously goes over his reading, trying out different emphases; a third stares unseeingly at her hands.

1:30—Ever been to a taping of a sitcom? Or a talk show or something? You know that warm-up guy they bring out about 10 minutes prior to the main event? Well, we have that too. He tells us not to wave at the camera, don't blow kisses, no "rabbit ears," the whole routine.

1:40—After a 10-minute lesson in how to be a good audience, it's show time. Out marches (and I do mean precision marching here) the Maranatha Junior Choir, followed by Sandi Patty, who sings one of the most patriotic renditions of the national anthem I've heard in a long time.

1:43—The chubby-cheeked cherubs from Brockton, Massachusetts, never looked so angelic. These kids have been up since 4:00 a.m.!

1:55—The Boys Choir of Harlem takes its place on the platform. Who knew "Hark! the Herald Angels Sing" had so much soul? These guys had even the rhythmically challenged among us bopping in our seats.

2:05—Sandi Patty comes back on stage to sing "Star of Bethlehem."

2:40—At the reading of the Christmas story I see people fighting back tears. The first to read is a police officer who had been with the New York Police Department for nine years. As he was racing to the World Trade Center he heard the voice of a comrade trapped under the rubble, calling over the radio for help. She still has not been found. He mentioned by name the woman in his church who didn't make it out alive. Today he carries with him a picture of his wife, taken on their wedding day, to remind him of what really matters, to "remind me what I have to come home to."

He begins reading: "'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God . . .' [John 1:1]."

Next to him stands an engaged couple. She watched from her sixteenth-floor vantage point as the twin towers of the World Trade Center collapsed. She waited nearly two hours to receive word that her fiancé had won the race against the cloud of smoke and debris that engulfed lower Manhattan.

And so it continues. Firefighters, city officials, and citizens read the Christmas story of hope and promise. Finally, Melodie Homer clears her throat and begins, "'Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. . . . He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away' [Rev. 21:1-4, NIV]." Homer was one of the few in the sanctuary who'd been able to maintain her composure.

2:55—A few moments of scurrying sound crew members and we're ready for more music. Wintley Phipps sings "Christmas Hug" and "Go, Tell It on the Mountain." Sandi Patty sings her trademark, "O Holy Night," and receives a standing ovation.

3:15—United States Navy Rear Admiral Barry Black delivers his sermon, "Follow the Star." Who knew such a powerful punch could be packed into such a short period of time?

3:30—After an amazingly short sermon that kept (almost to the second, according to my director's copy of the program schedule) to within the allotted time frame, Wintley Phipps sings "Lord of My Heart." I look around me. Some of the people in my row have their eyes closed; others are looking at something unseen. I remember thinking, This must be what it means to be transported by the power of music.

3:40—Two choirs of slightly more wilted cherubs follow the speakers, musical guests, and other participants onto the tiny stage. With Sandi Patty and Wintley Phipps leading, we sing lustily, if somewhat off-key, "God Bless America."

It's a breezy 67 degrees in Harlem. I know what I said about snow, but now that it's all said and done, walking away from the church, I have a red, white, and blue Christmas in my heart.

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Kristin Netteburg is a freelance writer who lives in Keene, Texas.