Four days after sentencing, I flew to Minneapolis to attend Gram’s memorial. In true Gram style, she had planned and paid for the entire service a decade before she died. Seven people stood up to share the deep and varied impact she had on their lives. Gram loved stories, and she loved the fact I was writing, so I read some of the parts from the book in progress. We read Ecclesiastes, 3:1-8, and we sang “O God, Our Help in Ages Past, On Eagles Wings,” and “I Would Be True.” The service ended as Gram wanted, as Gram dictated it should end, with us all singing “When The Saints Go Marching In.”

On the plane home, it was hard to believe I could no longer call Gram to tell her about the service, about the strange theatrical minister, about the sentencing hearing, or anything else. I could no longer ask her for advice, but I knew what she would say. She would say stand up for what is right and true and good. Gram never shied away from a fight; and that fighter is alive in me, it’s alive in Grace already, and I hope it’s alive in Kalvin. But at some point, Gram would also want me to put this down. There’s a time to fight, and there’s a time to heal, a time to weep, and a time to laugh. A time to mourn, and a time to dance, a time to hate, and a time to love.

Gram would want me to fight, but she’d also want me to dance, laugh, love, heal, and move forward. She’d want me to be resilient, as she was. She’d want me to live and love with fierce loyalty and integrity, as she did. She’d want me to move forward.

“Let the movement be the release,” I’d heard Dallas say dozens of times in the previous months.

The next day, I went to the barn to ride Woody. If I had known what awaited me as I arrived, I would have run laughing down the long cement hallway. I would have rushed through grooming and saddling Woody, energized by joyful anticipation. I probably would have laughed too loud and I may have done a happy jig while I reached for my helmet. Woody would have sensed the excitement and his ears would have been alert for something new and fun, as if he was asking, What do we get to experience today, Mom?

But I didn’t know, so I took my time brushing Woody’s coat and talking quietly to him about the babies and Dan and rubbing his neck. When the phone rang and I saw it was Bates, I hesitated to answer. It was less than two weeks since sentencing, and just seven days after Gram’s memorial.

“Hello?”

“Hi Sarah, it’s Matt Bates. I just wanted to let you know that a Belgian court sentenced Aubrey to four years in prison for child abuse.”

I smiled.

“Extradition could take months to work its way through the systems of two countries, but I wanted to let you know.”

“Thank you, Matt,” I said. I hung up and did the happy jig while Woody watched me from his soulful eyes. The sentence felt like retribution and validation and release all in one. If our justice system didn’t know what to do with her, at least Belgium’s did. I had ceased to know what a win would feel like in this experience; but four years for her in a Belgian prison felt good. In many ways justice for little Louisa and Archibald Noyen was justice for Kalvin and Grace as well. Without the injuries to Kalvin and Grace, Aubrey may never have been held accountable for the Noyens’ injuries. But I didn’t want to think of Aubrey anymore; even if it was thinking of her in a Belgian prison. My time and energy were my most valuable resources, and I had become exceedingly conscious and careful to whom and to what I gave them.

Woody stood still, absorbing the love and caring, receptive in a way that he, Timber, Kalvin and Grace are all doing their best to teach to me. There were many days in the prior months when I’d been in such a rush, when I’d thrown things on his back, as if he were inanimate, as if he didn’t care. I had been so wrong, so impatient and consumed.

Now I showed Woody the saddle pad and let him sniff it before I put it on his back. Then I did the same with the saddle blanket and the saddle. Despite the joy I felt, I moved slowly and methodically, loving the process and the time with Woody. When I placed the bit to his mouth, he took it gently. I pulled his ears through the headpiece and led him out of his stall.

“I’m right behind you, just get on and get him warmed up,” Dallas said.

When we turned the corner to the arena, I noticed it immediately. It was sitting alone in the middle of the perfectly groomed arena. It was round, red and white checkered, and seemed to be begging for us to join. I remembered Dallas mentioning they used to play horse soccer in the barn, but the image of a dozen horses kicking a ten-inch soccer ball never took root. However, the ball awaiting us wasn’t little, it was big, at least three feet in diameter and seemingly horse-proof.

“It’s just like walking him over the bridge for the first time,” Dallas said, as she and Summit caught up to Woody and me. “Just approach it slow, let him learn it won’t hurt him. Go ahead.” I could already feel myself smiling, and Woody as well. He was springy and excited as we approached the ball. But when we got on top of it, he dumped out to the right.

“No buddy, wrong answer,” I said as we backed up and tried again. And he escaped to the right.

“You can do it buddy. You can.”

After a few more tries, Woody stepped forward and the ball shot in front of us.

“Good boy!!” I squealed.

Then we walked forward and he kicked it again. Once Woody figured out he was the one making the ball move, his joy was unexpected and immediately contagious. Woody trotted after the ball, kicking it forward, then trotted after it again while I laughed on his back. Soon, I was barely directing him as he chased the ball around the arena with increasing skill and confidence. When he tried to pick it up in his mouth the first time, I grabbed the saddle horn to keep from being pitched forward. But I was laughing and giggling the entire time.

“I love when you laugh like that,” Dallas said laughing. I couldn’t help it, pure joy kept bubbling up from somewhere inside and escaping in the crazy outbursts.

Each time Woody bent down to pick up the ball, and kicked it instead, I pitched forward and laughed again, pure joy bubbling up from somewhere and escaping in a crazy outburst.

“You guys are having way too much fun,” someone said.

“I can hear you laughing outside,” someone else said.

On the drive home, my cheeks and stomach hurt from laughing, they were not in shape for unbridled joy.