Katie Lynn: Year 6

Katie Lynn.

This is your 6th anniversary away.

What a year it’s been. I think we’ll look back on this year as a significant one for our family... though I’m sure I’ve thought that during others as well.  This year felt like some strong threads of family identity were woven together. We found some of the things that make us us, if you know what I mean.

We created our first garden last summer, and watched everyone blossom as we cared for it and learned about plants and herbs—to the point that this summer we took down our pool and plan to put up a greenhouse in its place.

We road-tripped for the first time—and enjoyed it. :)

We’re closing our first full year of homeschooling. I think it was one of the biggest steps of faith we’ve taken—the one I was most nervous for, at least—and I’m grateful we did. It was a big transition. But we found so much freedom in learning, and we’ve watched a lot of growth and bonding take place within family (and especially sibling) relationships. We operate on a 4-day school week, matching Craig’s workweek, which gives us a lot of family time.

I don’t know that we really hit our stride until around January, halfway through the year. By then, I had a better grasp on what I needed in order to stay on top of the administrative side of school, and that was also the month we started Morning School. We read aloud by candlelight most mornings during the week. It started as just a way to sneak in some extra read aloud time while Hannah and Martha were asleep, but for the bigs and I, it’s become one of the most cherished hours of our day.

Bailey is growing before our eyes, and it still catches me off guard sometimes when she walks into the kitchen as tall as me and dressed like a young woman instead of a girl. She is so creative and self-motivated, and now that it’s spring and everything is growing, you can most often find her outside collecting flowers and leaves to press.

Jensen is still my right hand man at home. He is calm and steady, and such a hard worker. His current favorite possession is a hand saw Hudson got him for Christmas, and if he’s not inside, you can usually find him in the back of our property, sawing down scrub trees to turn into swords or teepees.

Hudson is growing. That might feel like a small update, but really it’s a huge one. There are areas of his life where growth slowed or skipped after he lost you. It’s nothing anyone chose—just the nature of traumatic loss at his age, I think. It’s taken a long time for him to reach a level of emotional maturity where we can begin to address those areas, but he’s there now. It’s a season of hard work for him in many ways, but he is beginning to see the fruit of that work in how he approaches relationships, how he makes choices, how he handles and regulates his own emotions. I am so proud of him.

Hannah is a joy. Her greatest desire is to be outside and playing with water or dirt—whether it’s 75 degrees or 45 degrees. She loves to wash things and water plants, and she is keenly aware of people around her and their emotions. Her curiosity knows no bounds right now, and she and Martha are inseparable.

Martha became a substantially more cheerful and happy toddler this past year once she could walk and talk. She is always on the move and wants to be right in the middle of whatever is happening. Her first words in the morning after I get her up are often, “Need to go on abenture!” (Abenture = adventure.) She is a daddy’s girl, and she loves to snuggle with Craig, or sneak up and steal his water bottle. :)

Craig has softened over this past year. The longer we live out of survival mode as a family, the more I notice some of his survival mode skills begin to shift and make room for growth and new skills. He is more reflective, more articulate about his emotions. During a recent parenting moment with Martha, we joked that he’s reached version 2.0 of being a dad—his response to her was calm and gentle, but  effective. It’s a joy to watch. I’m so grateful for him.

In many ways this year, I found my own grief—which I didn’t expect. But as I read through my previous years’ letters to you while I wrote this one, it seems I’ve said something similar before. Maybe this is part of the nature of grief—we find it and release it, then find it again in a new area. Maybe part of the key is in the continual practice of release, of choosing the joy and grace that have the ability to exist in the same space as grief. It's become a regular practice in our home, one that keeps us dependent on the Lord. It is why, I think, we have such a great appreciation for simple things--grief and loss tend to sharpen what is truly important, and what is not.

Our heavier seasons have generally been secondary emotions for me. I was sad, but it was more because the people in my life were sad. I love them and hurt for them. This year it was my own sadness. We chose a place for your ashes, and I was there to bury you. We sold your chiropractic office building, and I watched the signing of the papers and cried over the loss of that dream.

Both of those decisions were good for our family—they brought closure to areas we needed, and we are grateful for the ways God orchestrated things and cared for us. But they were heavy, and I felt it much more than I expected. Even though I didn’t get to meet you, it felt like the loss of a friend. It’s an area of my heart that still feels very tender, sitting just beneath the surface.

I’m not sure how to close this letter. It’s longer than I intended, but I often ask myself what I wish I could tell you as I’m writing it, and I guess there was a lot this year.

God is taking good care of us. He is at work.

We are doing well. We miss you.