​July is my favorite month of the year. Mostly because I love summer, and July is the pinnacle of summer. And because July contains my favorite weekend of the year; my family’s annual reunion. It started out as a long weekend and over the years has become a weekend that begins on Wednesday and ends with a pancake breakfast on Monday morning. This was our 39th annual reunion, so not a milestone year, but important none the less. It was the first reunion for Tsolmon, who was born just a few weeks before. She won’t remember it, but we will all remember meeting her. This was also the reunion of the “big tree project.” A strong wind blew down a huge, old tree next to my cousin’s house in Ryegate, where we gather for much of the reunion. A crew of cousins worked for many hours over a few days to cut up the tree, with a chainsaw brought from Virginia and a woodsplitter from the other side of Vermont. They cut and split the wood and then stacked it behind the garage. (Many years ago we had the reunion of the “bee attack” when several of the kids, who now have kids of their own, came screaming from the far meadow at my sister’s house saying they had been attacked by a swarm of bees. There were tears, comforting hugs, and cool cloths all around.) One of my favorite things about gathering each year with siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews from different generations, from as close by as Ryegate and as far away as Edinburgh, Scotland, is watching small, sweet, quiet moments between them. This year we were all entertained by Jameson, an affable little guy from northern Virginia, who celebrated his second birthday while we were all together. Jameson lives on a family farm and will likely soon learn to show cattle like his four-year-old brother Lawrence does. Since Jameson doesn’t remember his trip to our family reunion last year, it was impressive how quickly he picked up the names of all of his extended relatives and was readily calling us by name as he earnestly drew us into conversations with him. He called me “Happy” for the weekend, which for me was close enough to Abby. At one point as Jameson popped up from a quick diaper change to head outside to the deck to blow bubbles with his brother and some young and old cousins, he made an abrupt stop, turned around, and said, “love you, Mom,” and was out the door. It was a flash of a genuine gesture of affection that was over in a second, but one that I hope he continues his whole life. On Sunday, we met at the Old Goshen Church just outside of Bradford for a family service. The church in beautiful is its simplicity. Plain, wavy glass windows, a sloping wooden floor, and small doors at the end of each row of pews. Our service consists of a “message” from one of us, along with some readings, songs from our talented musical family members, a prayer that was written for the reunion that is read every year, and a family “check in,” when a member of each family unit updates us what they have been up to during the past year. For some reason, gathering in this old building as we’ve done for decades now often brings me to tears. While we’re there in that building, I can often hear the words and voices of our eldest generation, now all gone from us. My uncle, Stew, also called “the Chief,” started our reunions nearly forty years ago, after my mom, his sister, died unexpectedly. She was just 56 years old, younger than I am today. Stew was determined that we would gather each year, to revel in each other’s company for the fun and the joy of it, rather than just being together for funerals and weddings. He was adamant about it, lucky for us. This year, my cousin Amy read a letter that her dad, the Chief, had written to the next generation in 1998, more than 15 years after our first reunion. It was easy to hear his voice in the words Amy read. “I am writing this to all of you, irrespective of whether you do or do not attend the reunion or who you reunite with!” he started. The letter continued, explaining that he believed reunions to be “an inherent part of our life and that of our family. They give life meaning. There is a fellowship of family in reunions, a sense of knowing and relating to our extended family. But in a deeper and more intrinsic sense, reunions provide an I.D. and recognition of who we are and our place in the world. As we grow older (and we all do!) these God-given relationships of love and support will come to mean more and more to you and your children.” Then he gave some instructions: “Put family reunions of any kind high on your list of priorities. It may be a hassle getting there. It might even be a sacrifice of your time, money or social obligations. It will be richly rewarding for of you in the years that lie ahead.” I am never more grateful for my “God-given relationships of love and support” than I am when I am in the midst of these people who have truly come to mean more to me, and my children, as the years pass. And I hope someday Jameson will be motivated to write a letter to his children and grandchildren, telling them to make family reunions a priority so they will know the same rich rewards.