Every year in the height of summer, we caravan up north. Partially to escape the heat of the midwest and the south, partially just to breathe again. We travel in cars from Missouri and Tennessee, intersecting to pick up friends flying into airports from across the country.

As we approach our beach town, we roll the windows down. Emma sticks her head out the window like an excited golden retriever, singing to passersby while the wind whips her hair around her face. With each mile we travel, our anxiety dissipates. We laugh more easily, whether strictly from delusion after driving ten hours or from the sheer excitement, we cannot be sure.

The world itself softens around us as we get closer to the lakeshore; the pavement turns from asphalt to gravel to sand. We pull into our rocky driveway and pour into our rented cottage, bags packed to the brim with outfits we won’t ever wear because the same worn sweatshirts will be on repeat.

Every cloudless night, we’ll amble down to the beach as a herd, arms piled high with blankets and plastic cups and wine and our books. We’ll collapse onto the sand, some of us napping, some searching for the perfect rocks to collect or skip. The sun falls into the lake as we laugh and reminisce and feel at peace and look for the green flash.

The breeze picks up, tangling our hair, but we don’t notice. The rocks are smooth, worn from rolling around in the lake and being exfoliated endlessly by the sand. Our voices soften, muffled by the sound of the waves. My bones feel softer too. My body finally starts to relax and the feeling brings tears to my eyes. The landscape brings us peace. We bring each other peace.

Some combination of this same group has traveled to Michigan each summer for five years, since Covid attempted to keep us all from each other. It was our rebellion against adulting—an annual escape where we could gather as friends away from the stress of our daily lives and just play.

We spend our days exploring on our bikes, lazing in the sun at the beach, and walking to town for cherry limeade. We rotate who cooks dinner, or breakfast, and we make sure to eat ice cream every day. We talk about hope and despair and what the Lord has been teaching us lately. We talk about wedding plans and home renovations and birthdays and new jobs and when we’re going to start our own families. We talk about Love Island too, obviously, because we are well-rounded individuals.

At night the bugs sing a summer chorus through our open windows. We sleep until we wake up, because alarms are not welcome (unless set for a road trip or a breakfast plan). In the afternoon, I spread my picnic blanket on the lawn and lay starfish on the ground. Touching grass as the kids say. I realize I should touch grass more and my phone less, because thirty minutes of sun and I’m feeling like a new person.

If we’re lucky, we’ll get to do this again next year. There’s no predicting how much our lives will change and evolve over the next twelve months. No predicting what travel sagas and unforeseen time conflicts and other investments might surface. But one thing is for sure: the friendships we nurture during our time up north are a gift worth fighting for. To be together is always worth fighting for.

Olivia Harre

Olivia graduated from Calvin in May 2018 with a double major in business and writing. She now works as an editor in Nashville, Tennessee and is eating her way through the restaurants of her new town. She enjoys weekend trips with friends, petting other people’s dogs, and drinking coffee like a Gilmore Girl.