Four places mark outdoor scenes where my cousins and siblings played together in our youth: grandmother willow tree, the sandy river bed, the woods where we built forts, and the nature field we named the Tall Grasses. We claimed all four places in all four seasons.

Each place had special rituals and oaths we made with ash and acorns, twigs and bark, yet the Tall Grasses were awe-filled. The Tall Grasses is where we ran through the meadow down to the sunken pond. We tip toed across the decaying wood platform to the edge, just to watch the water rise through the slats as the old dock sunk and we screamed in the thrill. We climbed on upturned logs and squeezed colorful berries between our fingers. We balanced on mossy stumps where mushrooms grew deep in hollowed rings. 

Our dysfunctional, aspiring family lineage led to spirited girls running through the Tall Grasses. 

From there, we all grew.

Come fall, while feeling less spirited, I went back to the Tall Grasses. The same foliage grows in the meadow and woods. Golden rod bends over the damp path; fresh rain glistens on jewel toned greenery. Bronze pine needles cover the ground. The platform still partially sunken in the reeds submerges when I tip toe to the edge, once more. 

While I was welcomed by the Tall Grasses, scenes flickered across the grassy bay. I saw the young girls who used to explore here. I saw our young imagination soaring through the pine trees. I heard our feet run through the field, laughing, shouting, losing sight of one another and finding each other again. I watched as we discovered impressions in the grass where deer lay in the night and curled up ourselves in the coves of trodden reeds. I smelled the warm earth beneath us. Everything faded as we shut our eyes. . . Close your eyes. . . and pretend to sleep. The quiet pause of rest, then the roar of life. Open them! It’s morning again! We rose from beds in the grass and ran again. 

I stand over twenty years later, in what is still true: we rise from beds of memory, of lineage, of dreams spun in wind and decaying grass, to run again. 

With new strength, new spirit, renewed, remade, reclaimed, remembering the Holy Spirit lives inside us, is breathing, moving, present among us. John 20:22. Jesus reclaims every sorrow, turns every broken thing whole. 

From where we come from, we head somewhere new. Glorious. 

A love letter to my cousins/sisters/forever Narnian tribe, 

Each of you are a version of strength I admire. Note this.

From nurses to managers, marketing experts to Marine officers and sales reps, home designers, musicians, writers and editors, floral arrangers, horse wranglers, quilters, math wizzes, dancers, singers, makers, teachers, generous hosts, fashion gurus, unofficial dj's, readers, believers, photographers, bakers, ultra marathon runners, travelers, wives, mothers. . . sisters. 

Your wit and wisdom makes me laugh and examine the world. May you remain very brave where you are and brave wherever you go next. 

I hope one day all of us will reunite and run through the Tall Grasses like we did when we were young. I hope one day we will sing in four part harmony again and nail the descant like it's 1999.  

Until then, I love you. 

-Ed

-Em

-Lem