I like grass.  Whether in the pasture or the hay field, grass does not try to be more than their natural self.  Walk a field and I feel their rootedness and love of sun.  Whether ryegrass, wheatgrass, orchard grass, or tall fescue, I expect grass to live their created identity.  I never expect cool weather grass to grow much in the summer, nor warm weather grass to grow in the spring.  Grass is the wonder of ordinary.

When I choose to experience people like grass my relationships become closer and easier.  I’ve a friend I not often call.  They are very personable and likeable when we hang out together in person.  They shoot-the-bull easily, are engaged, have a true sense of who they are, and a genuine interest what is going on in my life.  Yet, when I call them on the phone there is no patience, they are quick and to the point.  “How is life?” is answered quickly with, “Fine.” quickly followed with a pressing, “What’s up?!”  They get right-to-business.  Their ease with relationship and questioning and wonder is lost over the phone.

The “What’s up” is disorienting to me because I’m expecting their unique insight and laughter.  This lack of phone relationship bothered me, until, I began thinking of them as a grass relative.  I don’t expect fescue to be anything other than fescue.  And when I hear “What’s up” I recognize this is another way of being grass.  They may blow in the wind a little differently than me, but then, that is what you get, naturally, from wheatgrass.

In trying moments with friends or acquittances I have found I am healthier—which in-turn, I think they too are healthier for they need not dwell with whatever I might project—when I quietly say to myself, “oh, yes, she is bunchgrass” or “he is wildrye.”  Perhaps it is simple and trite, but I find knowing my people through grass lenses helps me accept creation as created and experience the natural as intended.