“What are we doing here?” I look at my grandma.
“My turn to share a secret,” she says cryptically.
After leaving Jordan, I pull my car into a snow-cleared spot at Bayfront Park, stopping when the bumper nestles against a two-foot-high drift.
We pull on our mittens and scarves, and my grandmother reaches into the floorboard to retrieve two pairs of earmuffs.
“You’re gonna need these,” she says, handing me one.
We head toward the Petoskey break wall, and I see a tent set up on the icy bay.
“It’s early this year,” I say.
“It’s icier and colder this year,” she says. “But the timing is perfect.”
I already know what we’re headed to see.
I haven’t been here since...
We walk out on a cleared dock about eight hundred feet offshore.
An underwater crucifix, white as a ghost, shimmers under the bay through a hole in the ice.
My grandma grabs my mittened hand and squeezes it, hard.
An eleven-foot-tall cross, with a five-and-a-half-foot figure of Jesus Christ nailed to it, lies at the bay’s bottom, illuminated by lights. Lake fish and flora swirl around the crucifix, glowing in the white light.
“You know the story, right?” Grandma asks.
“Bits and pieces,” I say. “It’s been so long since I’ve been here.” I look at my grandmother. “I never returned after Mom and Dad died.”
Grandma walks to the edge and stoops over the hole in the ice. When she speaks, her breath comes out in big puffs and lingers around her head like thought bubbles in a cartoon.
“The crucifix came to Petoskey in 1962, albeit in an odd way. A grieving mother and father from Michigan’s Thumb had the crucifix built in Italy in memory of their teenage son, who was killed in a tragic accident, but it was broken during shipping, the family rejected it, and the cross made its way to Little Traverse Bay where it was sold in an insurance sale to a dive club,” Grandma says. “They bought it to honor a diver who drowned, and it was placed here during a huge town event.”
My grandmother stands, her gaze still fixed upon the crucifix, and continues. “In the ’80s, the crucifix was lifted from the water and repaired. It was secured to a new base that was built in the Petoskey marina and then replaced in the bay. A winter viewing of the crucifix was proposed, lights were added under the water, and a hole was cut in the ice. Today, people from all over Michigan and the world come to view the crucifix in winter, not only to memorialize all those who have perished at sea but also to remind them that even in the depths of their own grief, there is hope.”
My grandma walks over to me.
“Our family has had too much grief in our lives,” she says. “Your parents, Captain Santa, Jordan. But I come here every winter with your grampa to think of that family who lost their son so long ago, and from all of their pain arose a glorious tribute to remind us that we truly never die. We may all try to bury our pain below the surface, but when we allow our light to shine, we can change the world.”
“What didn’t you ever tell me?” I ask.
“We all have secrets, don’t we, Susan?” she says with a wink. “Did my eye move? I think it’s frozen.”
I laugh and put my arm around my grandma’s waist. She is warm.
“We all continue to suffer in ways big and small from what happened so many years ago,” Grandma says, her voice muffled in the wind. She looks out over the bay and then down at the water. “This helps me put it all in perspective. This helps light the dark days of winter.”
I walk over to the hole in the ice and look into the murky depths below.
Dark to light.
I stare at the crucifix and then study the life that still churns all around it.
“Grandma!” I suddenly call. “Look!”
Nestled against the base of the shrine are a carpet of pine trees.
“Do you think...?” I start.
My grandma smiles. “I do,” she says.
“Captain Santa still working his magic,” I say.
“Your grampa actually started that,” my grandma says.
I look back at her. “What?”
“To honor his grandfather and as a way to protect the statue’s base and provide a home for fish,” she says. “It was his idea, long ago. Every December, before the bay freezes over, the city dumps Christmas trees here.”
“How did I not know that?” I ask.
“It’s amazing how connected we all are if we’re just willing to extend a hand.”
I extend my hand.
“Would you join me in a prayer?” I ask.
My grandma takes my hand and bows her head. I shut my eyes.
When I open them, light spills from the darkness below, and the icy bay glows.