Katie Lynn: Year 5

Katie Lynn. 

How has it been five years? This anniversary is landing differently. Over the past few years, much of April and all of May have been overshadowed by your loss. It always felt like such a juxtaposition—watching new life unfolding around us, but feeling such sadness in our home. 

I often would write this letter to you during those weeks—when things were hard and heavy. It was a way for me to work through some of the emotions that came up as I supported Craig and the bigs. 

But this year has been different. 

This year it feels like our whole house is experiencing spring together for the first time since we’ve been a family.

Our past year feels so big to try to sum up. We added Martha Ann to our family last July, and she is almost one. We just became a transit van family. We started a garden. We will be homeschooling this coming year. That probably feels like the biggest thing at the moment—it’s something we’ve talked about since we were married, but a great deal of blending and growing needed to happen before it could ever become a reality. This year God brought us back to it over and over, and we decided to follow his lead. We were nervous at first (and still have those days), but now that we’ve reached the final day of school, we can’t wait. Everyone is ready to be home. 

Bailey is sweet and steady and creative and coming into her own. She chose to be baptized this year and her love for Jesus is evident. Jensen is brilliant and technical, has found a new love for history and is such a gentle big brother to the littles. He is my right hand man. Hudson is beginning to blossom in many areas—in the last six months he’s learned to read, ride a bike, tie his shoes, among other things. In some ways, it feels like he has learned how to learn, if that makes sense, and that’s really the biggest thing. Hannah is joy in our home, always cleaning, opening and closing all the doors, obsessed with “Marfie,” and handing out hugs and kisses to anyone who is feeling sad. Martha is little but wants to be big. She wants to be right in the mix and do whatever everyone else is doing. Heaven help us when she starts to walk. Craig is our rock. He’s the hardest worker, and he always has my back. Our life right now is FULL in the very best way, and the whole house gets excited when he pulls in the driveway at dinner time. 

It feels good to experience a less grief-heavy season. And also more complicated than I expected. There are days with big emotions, but this year, many of them have (unexpectedly) been mine. I started this letter a week ago instead of a month ago, after realizing how close the date was, how “normal” our spring has been, and suddenly wondering if we were doing something incorrectly. Are we forgetting you? Did we not talk about you enough? Aren’t we supposed to be sad? 

Grief is funny that way. When it’s very present, you wish it would move on. When it takes a step back, you wonder if you did something wrong. The other day, Craig said, “I think maybe we’re learning to let go a little bit.” And I think he’s right, though we’re still figuring out the odd guilt that seems to accompany the lack of heavy grief. We haven’t forgotten you—truly. You come up in conversation all the time in our home, and I use your cast iron skillets and pampered chef scraper almost every day. You are remembered often by all of us. I’ve yet to pass a Mother’s Day without the realization that without you, I wouldn’t have the privilege of mothering this family, and the fresh reminder of how grateful I am that God redeems pain. 

Your loss was all-encompassing for a long time—understandably and rightly so. Now it feels like the joy and love we find in everyday life take up more room than they used to, and while grief still shows up, it doesn’t have quite as much of a permanent residence. So while it still feels new (and sometimes a bit awkward) to walk through May without grief overshadowing our home, I have to think you would approve.

We miss you and love you so much.