EPILOGUE

DECEMBER 2019

THURSMANN MANSION, BUCKHEAD, ATLANTA

“Welcome, everyone!” Anna adjusted the mic downward, which sent mild feedback through the speakers strategically placed around the backyard. “I’m Anna of Anna Baker Bruce Designs, and my colleagues and I are thrilled to be hosting one of the prestigious Homes of Christmas Past Tours right here at the historic Thursmann Mansion in beautiful Buckhead. Actually, thrilled is putting it mildly. We are absolutely over the moon!”

I sat on the front row, squeezing Stephen’s hand as laughter rippled through the almost five hundred people gathered for opening day. Maggie and Paige beamed at me from where they sat on his other side, Bryan’s red Nerf ball tucked in Maggie’s lap. Paige had been here for two weeks helping with details, but her daily prayer walk around the estate I would never forget. And with Bernice and Christopher on my other side, my heart felt so full, I thought it would burst. He and Bernice had been seeing each other since the day we found the graves, and she fairly glowed these days.

Beyond Anna at the podium on the makeshift stage at the edge of the yard lay the beautifully landscaped Thursmann Family Cemetery. With the trees trimmed and the underbrush cleared, the six original marble headstones had been restored to their haunting beauty. A seventh gravestone, shining bright and new in the noon sun, stood beside Jonathan’s, the plots encircled by a Victorian black wrought iron fence and gate.

Bernice leaned close. “I can’t believe the day is finally here!”

I gently bumped shoulders with her. “Me either!”

Stephen leaned over. “Don’t make me separate you two. I’ll do it.”

“Not if I do it first,” Christopher deadpanned.

Bernice playfully jabbed him in the ribs.

I flipped through my note cards, eager to say just the right thing when my turn came.

“You’ve got this, honey,” Stephen whispered. “God’s been preparing you for this moment. You’re the contemporary Esther of Gardenia Blossom Trace.”

I smiled, appreciating his reference to a Bible passage Douglas Tollwood had recently taught at Hope Church, where Stephen and I had been attending. It was also where he met with his accountability group led by Mark Lewis, his friend and the attorney who had handled the restraining orders for us.

Stephen’s recommitment to our marriage continued to amaze me. He’d even resigned his hard-earned partnership at Burgdan, Croft, and Finney and now worked alongside Mark in a smaller firm, serving people from all walks of life who otherwise couldn’t afford expert legal advice. The position paid a fraction of what Stephen had been making, but the town house we’d move into next spring was all we needed. I couldn’t have been more proud of him.

“And now,” Anna continued, “it’s my pleasure to introduce you to the newest designer at our firm. Claire Powell, along with her husband, Stephen, are the owners of the Thursmann Mansion, or Gardenia Blossom Trace, as it was called back in the day. It’s Claire who found the hidden room you’re all here to see today!”

When she finished her introduction, I stepped to the mic and saw so many people I knew and loved, each a tangible reminder of God’s blessing on my life: Mark Lewis; Rhonda Hadley, who, through handling the closing, had become a friend; Sandra Schaffer from Denver; Stephen’s sister Bev and her husband; and several members from the board of the National Register of Historic Places seated with Nanci. Toward the back stood Alex Brennan with an attractive blonde close at his side. He gave an almost imperceptible nod, and I thanked God for the man of integrity he was.

“It may come as a shock to some of you,” I began, “but I was not exactly excited when my husband purchased this house sight unseen. In fact, I might have been a little less than cordial in my response.”

“Oh, were you angry, honey? I didn’t notice,” Stephen said, playing the perfect straight man.

Everyone laughed, and I continued, “But what I didn’t know then is what a gift this house would be to me. Finding that room and Charlotte Thursmann’s personal journal has changed me.”

I talked briefly about Charlotte and Nettie and their love for each other, then about the priceless journal. About Achan Crowley and his cruelty, and about the birth of Little Miss, as Nettie called her. And finally about Charlotte’s death. I told of the final journal entry by Nettie and how it led us to the graves of Charlotte’s five children and first husband, Jonathan. “Thanks to Nettie, we were even able to find Charlotte’s unmarked burial place as well.”

I retrieved a hot-off-the-press copy of Charlotte Thursmann’s Journal I’d stashed in the podium. Bernice and I had worked feverishly to complete the little tome so copies would be available today. It included the entire text of the journal, as well as photos of the original journal, the hidden room, the trapdoor, the tunnel, the house, and the grounds.

I turned to the place marked with a ribbon. “Today, to honor the memory of Charlotte Thursmann, we dedicate a headstone to mark her final resting place. Just before she died following the birth of her sixth child, Little Miss, who was named Charlotte after her mother, a custom common back then, Charlotte wrote, ‘I wish I had lived more of my life from where I am right now, looking back from the threshold of eternity. And, my precious Charlotte, I wish I could somehow tell you how truly fleeting this life is, and how different so many of my choices would have been if made from this vantage point. So much time devoted to things that will not last, instead of investing in what can never die.’

“When you visit the little cemetery behind me later, you’ll see that her headstone reads Charlotte Thursmann. Living from Eternity. 1834–1863. Charlotte Thursmann was not yet thirty years old when she penned those words. Such wisdom from so young a woman. But if Charlotte were here today, I believe she would tell you she learned all she knew from her beloved Nettie. While Nettie’s final resting place is unknown to us, we honor her today with a remembrance marker beside Charlotte’s grave. The marker reads, ‘I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.’ That’s from Second Timothy chapter four, verse seven in the King James, and from all we know about Nettie, it aptly describes her tenacious faith.”

I paused and looked across the crowd. “How different might my life be if I chose to live from eternity? If I made decisions as though looking back without the weight of earthly pride or greed? Without the need to always be right? Without first thinking, What’s in it for me? or even whether life is fair?

“What if I lived from a perspective of how my choices might help or hurt others in light of eternity? Might that change the legacy I leave for those coming after me? Would it increase the chance that the lives we’re living here on earth will actually live on from eternity? As are Charlotte’s and Nettie’s, even 156 years later?”

I took a steadying breath. “What happened here at Gardenia Blossom Trace, especially to Charlotte and Nettie, is a story that needs to be told. Even more, it’s a story that continues today.”

I nodded to Bernice, who began making her way to the podium. “It’s my great honor to introduce you to someone with a very personal connection to the Thursmann Mansion—Gardenia Blossom Trace. For three decades, Bernice Tollwood, director of historical archives and collections at the Atlanta History Center, has researched her own family history and records that hinted of an ancestor who lived and worked in this area, maybe even at this house, as a slave during the Civil War. Charlotte Thursmann’s journal, and particularly Nettie’s final entry, provided the missing pieces that helped solve the puzzle.”

Bernice reached the stage, and we hugged.

I turned back to the crowd. “May I introduce Bernice Tollwood, the great-great-great-granddaughter of Charlotte Thursmann, and also the great-great-great-great granddaughter of Nettie.”

Gasps and spontaneous applause broke out, but in typical Bernice fashion, she shook her head and waved for everyone to quiet down. When I turned to leave, she grabbed my sleeve.

“You’re not leaving me up here to do all this alone!” Bernice faced the laughing audience. “Oh, friends”—she sighed—“I know you really want to see that once-hidden room up there and then the little cemetery, so let me cut to the chase. Stephen Powell, would you please join us?”

Stephen shook his head and pointed to the two of us as though saying this was our day. But Maggie grabbed his arm and made him come up.

Bernice continued, “Stephen and Claire Powell, after much discussion and prayer, have decided to sell this estate—at a greatly discounted price, I might add—to a privately held organization that will maintain the house and grounds. So come June of next year, Gardenia Blossom Trace will open to the public as a working house museum. And by working, I mean that not only will the public be invited to learn more about Charlotte and Nettie’s journey, and of life and racial relations back in the nineteenth century, but we’ll also be using this house and these grounds to give underprivileged and abused women a fresh start. We’ll come alongside to help heal their wounds, equip them with new skills, and give them the opportunity to give back through preparing meals for the homeless in a kitchen that is every woman’s dream! Our goal is to continue the legacy of faith, love, and strength forged here so many years ago.”

As the crowd applauded, Stephen stepped to the mic. “And part of our agreement is that Mrs. Tollwood serve as the first director of the estate and these programs. Claire and I could not imagine anyone else in this role.”

When the applause died down, I leaned in. “One more thing, friends: After you’ve seen the hidden room, if you’re brave and able, I encourage you to climb down the ladder and crawl through the narrow tunnel as the slaves did on their way to what they called the Promised Land. You’ll never be the same.”

“That’s right!” Bernice chimed in. “Walking in someone else’s footsteps changes you forever. And that’s what we want here—for hearts and lives to be changed by the living, breathing history of this place.” She paused, and her voice softened. “Friends, the Bible says every nation, tribe, people, and tongue will be present in the Kingdom of Heaven. And if it’s going to be that way there—and it is—then why not start practicing it here?”

If there was one thing Bernice wasn’t shy about, it was speaking truth. And I wanted to be just like her.

As she wrapped up the program, I looked into Stephen’s eyes and caught a glimpse of us through the coming years. I didn’t know what tomorrow held, much less all the days ahead of us, but I knew Who held them, and I vowed to live each one from eternity.