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| Sue Balabuch, Erna Hermann, Diana Dinverno, Iris, Marilyn Dean, and MaryEllen Hammarlund |
Christmas is all about mystery—the advent
of Jesus, the Savior of mankind born of a virgin. Somehow, later came Santa
Claus, the jolly man who drives an airborne sleigh by the power of magical
reindeer and delivers presents to obedient children.
I
believed in Jesus and knew Christmas celebrates His birth. And I also believed
in Santa to see him as many children said they did. Perhaps an unfulfilled anticipation
of spying Santa’s sleigh on Christmas Eve bred the desire for my children to see
Santa. For I promised my three little girls their father would take them to see
St. Nick. They would tell him what they wanted for Christmas.
A risky plan,
indeed.
Nonetheless, my
husband drove our girls downtown to Detroit’s J.L. Hudson’s, took escalators up
to the twelfth floor to Santa’s Wonderland. A photograph ever memorializes our
youngest daughter in tears, Santa forcing a smile under his mustache.
Years later, Christmas
joy languished during the long sorrow of our firstborn’s substance abuse and
death. Graciously, Amy Grant performed at the Palace the December my broken family
needed her most. A surprise gift to my husband and daughters, we adored every
minute of Amy’s show, a lovely voice we all knew well.
In 2008, I planned
a trip for the wonderful women who offered to serve on my lavender farm’s
advisory board and staff. After a festive breakfast, wouldn’t it be fun to
drive them to individual mystery destinations to celebrate Christmas?
Oh yes, both
groups loved the surprise entirely. Several advent seasons later, I blended
both advisors and staff for all to enjoy a new mystery trip.
Friday, December
16, the lavender ladies and I met again around my dining room table. I served currant
lemon lavender scones, Ensalada Nochebuena, Quiche Lorraine, Quiche Nicoise,
tea and coffee to those who helped build my lavender farm.
After our gift exchange
and stories of cherished Christmas memories, I said, “Time to leave for our
first destination!”
“What about Erna’s
cake?” a guest asked.
“Oh no! I forgot
the cake!” And Erna’s beautiful chocolate layer torte is not to be overlooked.
I closed the door
to my study and called our second destination, my favorite restaurant close by
our first stop. “I have reservations for six at four p.m. today. Will you
permit us to bring our own dessert to the table?”
“Yes,” the
employee said.
I led the convoy down
Rochester Road, across Tienken, and down Adams Road with one red traffic light.
The ladies and I parked in the lot for Meadowbrook Hall and entered the stately
doors on time for our self-guided tour.
Dear Reader, nearly
two hours we strolled decorated, palatial halls and rooms where another family
suffered tragedy, and left their remarkable legacy for public view.
From four to almost six p.m., we dined at
Kruse & Muer, our final stop. Justin, our server, plated our cake while the
pleasure of friendship and another road trip witnessed God with us. The
ultimate mystery.
