The walls of our city are up for the tenth time, and many of them are, indeed, the original walls. They've been patched, repaired, repainted and propped up after a decade's use, and if they could talk, they'd tell quite a story.

The stories we tell aren't of wooden walls, however. Like any church that's had a great experience with a project, we talk about relationships. We talk of friendships formed over all those construction Saturdays, and babies in the manger that somehow grew very, very quickly into 10-year-old boys and girls. We talk of long nights on the weekend before Christmas, celebrating our opportunity to meet 10, 000 or so guests who come to our version of Bethlehem. And we tell more and more stories of friends we've made in other churches, in other communities, who've found a bond with us through their Christmas Bethlehem.

And sooner or later, we talk of the miracles.

That very first year, for instance, one of our horses grew very ill, very quickly. We had prayed over the animals used in the interactive drama, and we prayed over this one. We also made a call to a vet, hoping to find someone who'd answer the phone after hours. And we also needed a veterinarian with some patience. After all, our church was packed with people, and traffic was at a standstill. There were, perhaps, 2, 000 people on our property, right at that moment. "I'll be right there," said the animal doctor.

"We need to tell you where we are," said the horse's owner. "No need to do that," said the vet. "I'm in your sanctuary." It was like an angel had landed, and in half an hour, our sick horse was as good as new.

Or what of the year when we dodged two bands of storms, and the tornadoes they carried? We had to shut the city down for an hour, and the clean-up effort was nothing short of Herculean. More amazing to me? Hardly anyone left the worship center. The music was good, the friendships were great, and the real Christmas story was worth the wait.

That first year, ten years ago, we only had four babies to play the part of Baby Jesus. I'm pretty sure they were all girls, too. What workers they were! Parents and babies played their parts to perfection, three hours or more at a time, for three straight nights. Last year? We had more than 20 babies ready for the manger, all of them providing the best moment of the entire weekend for thousands of visitors.

Those of us who were around in 1997 usually reserve our favorite memories for that first year. It was, after all, an amazing display of God's power at work through His people.

The city was built in only 59 days in 1997, with every area of production starting from scratch. We had work days for building and painting walls, costume-making parties, and announcements on Sundays of which shoe stores had out-of-season sandals still in stock. And where were we supposed to find a camel in Georgia?

By the time that first night of Walk Through Bethlehem arrived, the city was up and decorated, though far smaller and less secure than today's version. The roof tops of our shops and homes, for instance, were blue tarps, the kind you might put on a rooftop after a really bad storm.

On Sunday, our final day, the weather forecast called for rain, and lots of it. Any Georgian could have looked at the weather radar that morning and predicted rain. It was coming out of the Gulf, and Lower Alabama was already getting soaked. And all of that water was predicted to hit our blue tarps in mid-afternoon.

We prayed that God would hold off the rain, thanking Him for the 6, 000-plus who'd already come to our Bethlehem. We begged God for a chance to tell the story to all who would come that day … if only the rain wouldn't fall.

By the time we opened our doors, the skies were full of clouds. By evening, you could smell the rain. By nightfall, you could almost touch it. Nevertheless, it wasn't raining. We passed the 3, 000-guest mark around 10 p.m. , and another 1, 000 were still waiting to see the city. By that time, it was funny. The air felt as if it could explode with rain, and yet the guests kept walking through the story, without an umbrella in sight.

It was well after midnight when the last group made its way through the city. As soon as they disappeared from sight, actors and actresses began running props into our Christian Life Center. Many of the props had been borrowed, and many were valuable antiques.

None of them were wet.

The last group left the manger, and two tired parents scooped up their sleeping Jesus, hustling inside before the storm arrived. At the cross, where a host told the rest of the story, the first drops began to fall. The last "Shalom!" was said, and the group and host ran inside. By the time they arrived, there was a downpour in progress. In fact, the rain made so much noise on the metal roof that we could barely hear ourselves sing To God Be The Glory.

It had been raining in other parts of Warner Robins since 10 p.m. , we discovered the next day. Once it started on our property, it rained so hard that the rain-heavy tarps knocked down many of our walls.

Had the rain come earlier, we wouldn't have been able to see the 4, 000 who came on that miraculous Sunday, including those who connected the line between Christmas and Easter for the very first time. Bethlehem taught us a lot that first year. It taught us to dream, to trust, to work hard, to use our gifts as a team, and to let God take care of any miracle we needed.

Ten years later, that still seems to be a good plan of action.

Author Andy Cook is the pastor of Shirley Hills Baptist Church in Warner Robins.