When I think back on my childhood going to church, the sound that comes first to mind isn’t the chatter of kids in Sunday school or the clatter of hymnals being closed. It’s the deep, booming baritone of Rev. Wintermeyer echoing through the sanctuary of Saint John’s United Church of Christ in Mehlville. He had a voice that could fill every corner of that old church, and every Christmas he sang O Tannenbaum — “Oh Christmas Tree” — in German. That song was enough to bring my dad to church each year, even if the rest of the calendar didn’t. Hearing it now, even in memory, still stirs something inside me.
The church itself was a place of warmth and history. It had that comforting old-world feel — lots of dark wood, the scent of polish and hymnbooks, and light filtering through the stained-glass windows that painted the pews in color. It was both humble and beautiful, a place where time seemed to slow just a bit on Sunday mornings.
My mom taught Sunday school there every week alongside Miss Alice, who seemed to have a knack for quiet order. Eventually, I found myself teaching Sunday school too. By then I was old enough to understand how much work and love went into it. Later, I even coached the church’s softball team. The kids were the best part — energetic, funny, and full of heart. The parents, well… I learned early on that coaching means working with more than just players. Still, it was worth it for the laughter and the sense of belonging those games brought.
Saint John’s was where I was confirmed, where I learned a lot about faith — and perhaps even more about community. I served on the Church Council for a year which offered lessons of its own. Ultimately I learned, the Church wasn’t just a place of worship; it was a place where people showed up for each other. Over time, life moved on. The church isn’t a part of who I am anymore, but its presence has a way of lingering. When I drive by, I still feel something familiar, like a faint melody you can’t quite shake.
My parents are buried in the church cemetery, not far from that sanctuary where those sounds still seem to echo in my mind. It’s a quiet place, and standing there, I always feel the same comforting presence I knew as a child.
Looking back, I realize Saint John’s gave me more than sermons or hymns — it gave me relationships, lessons, and memories that continue to shape me. It’s where I learned that faith, at its best, lives in the people around you.
Welcome! 