I sensed the soaring sandhills today…at least, so it seemed. A distant discord…cockled calls above clouds. “Come along! Come along!” Would that I could follow that cry….

But I am earth enslaved, gravity grounded. Freedom for me is fought for, not found in flight. I defend what is dear, beating the bounds.

A friend recently rendered me misty-eyed, mulling. She reminded me of Middle-earth’s Dúnedain: those who safeguard the simple joys of life for others. This at a cost of long vigils: watching…waiting. I’ve pondered their countenances as I’ve tried to render Rangers. What would it cost? What lines of worry would etch each brow? What grizzled grayness would graft itself onto black locks? Eyes, though, always piercing…through stave and stone, fog and flesh.

Our blueberry bushes are blazing. All other leaves have flooded the front yard. Busy folk on busy lawns rake and blow blizzards of the dead and dying as I continue to listen for unclear croonings. This is too busy a place for Rangers! Surely I should take the straightest path out to the edges; hike to the creek, tool trenches in soft earth and hole up….

Or maybe not.

Maybe the edges stand before me. Maybe the boundary is not ‘round hearth and home, but around the human heart. I can stand, staff in hand, descrying demons beyond each branch… or I can seek, perhaps, for a subtler safety.
And with that thought, sound ceases. Clatter calms, motors mute. All I feel is air flowing, colossal currents just past perception, a maelstrom with this small house at its center, this small heart at its center.

And then I realize. The boundaries still exist. Aragorn’s kin are still out in that storm, seeking. They are not guarding the Shire, but my soul. They aren’t felling wickedness so much as weakness, not trolls so much as transgressions. But they want aid…I, too, must play my part. I must open gates and armories. I must heed their counsel when they bring forth the Black Arrow.

This is hard…to find that _I_ am the very ground on which this battle is fought!

But there is no nobler time to join these ranks. Now is when all eternity begins; now is when the tide turns; now is all we have, despite the coaxing of Morgoth to put this off for just one more day…just one more day…just one more day….

Now, by all that is holy, Lord, help me to simply say “yes”….

One word, whispered in darkness, and all is well. One small sound spoken against the storm, and those that seek to secure me will clash swords and shout hallelujahs!

For it seems to me the title “Ranger” suits not these guardians. Messengers I name them, Forerunners. These warriors sport wings! And with mighty blast of trumpets, they will bear each of us through the tempest as we prepare, at long last, for the return of the King.