The thing about Lynn

Lynn Bartels died this week. She was, by every measure, an absolute legend. So, as the beautiful tributes on social media and in print, radio, and TV accumulate while our collective Colorado landscape cries out, I add to the cacophony of voices mourning the loss. Lynn was the kind of journalist of a bygone era, one who was fair, sharp, and the kind of person you would look at with both awe and a little bit of fear - the mark of a true journalist. More than anything else, though, she was an amazing friend.

Lynn’s family announced her death on Friday afternoon. In media and politics, a Friday afternoon story is called the “Friday news dump,” and it’s the time in the week when particularly devastating stories hit in the hopes of blunting their impact. I think Lynn would have smiled to know that the great loss we all suffer, to know we now exist in the world without her in it, came on a Friday afternoon.

Lynn was constantly taking pictures of both herself and everyone around her. I would beg her not to if I was feeling tired or fat (so, often) and I would tell her as much. “You look beautiful,” she would invariably say, “smile. You’re going to be glad for this picture someday,” as she would snap the next shot. She was right. I am now glad for every one.

Lynn’s pictures and words told our stories. She was our record keeper, our champion, and our conscience. You always knew what she loved: her family, good election policy, breakfast at Racine’s — and what she hated: Donald Trump and technology.

One of the things I loved about Lynn was the way she could look at things in the world and truly see their essence. Ever the journalist, she had a way of viewing complicated people and situations and distilling them into words no one else could. She also loved being in the middle of the action, whether it was politics, news, or just the drumbeats of our lives. It was not just her work; it was her life’s calling.

I lived a lot of my life both observed by and alongside Lynn Bartels. At my wedding, I decided to love the rain as it fell, even if it would have made other brides panic - she took one of my favorite pictures ever as I stood holding an umbrella. She was one of the first people to meet both my boys and announce their births to the world. Lynn showed up to document our lives in both the triumphs and the tragedies.

Lynn wrote about the challenge I did to live off the little farm for a year, and I remember when I first read the lede, I realized I was deeply and truly known, “joyous Kelly Maher being, well, Kelly Maher.” She tolerated my sometimes annoyingly Labrador-ish joy at every day with good humor, and created a place where I could lay down my defenses, as she did with almost everyone who knew her.

A few years ago, we were at lunch, and Lynn once again refused my attempt to beg off from another picture. I had been crying and didn’t want my puffy face on the internet. She and I were discussing the illness of a friend who we weren’t sure was going to make it (he did - phew), and the waitress came up to the table to check on us and saw my tears. The waitress then told us her own tragic story of loss. People would always share things with Lynn; she made everyone around her want to reveal themselves. When the check came, I grabbed it and paid, trying to hide the tip I left. The waitress caught us on the way out, and this time she was the one who was crying. Lynn outted me to the world, but the thing I remember the most was how Lynn looked at me like she didn’t just know me, she saw inside of me.

Like so many people, my Dad is on my mind today. Lynn wasn’t someone who just showed up to weddings and births. She came to my Dad’s funeral and wake, a man she’d met only once. She took pictures of me there, too, against my will. I remember how she held our family’s heartbreak that day, and how much I cherished her as she bore witness to another milestone. She was there for everything, good and bad.

So, I knew when I slipped the Christmas card into the mail last year with her address on it - the one that had the photos on it of just me and the boys, with a new return address to a townhouse, that she was about to observe another hard milestone. Almost exactly 48 hours after the card hit the mailbox, I looked down at my phone to see her name on the screen.

There was no greeting; she got right to it. “Did you get a divorce?!?!”

“Yes.”

And, once again, Lynn listened while I cried. “I knew something was up once you stopped writing and disappeared,” she sighed.

I told her how much I felt like a failure, my fears for the boys, and my sadness. I also told her of hope and of a different future. And I told her of how I wanted to write again but couldn’t. I would sit here, looking at this newsletter, and the blank page, and how nothing would come.

“I can’t write anymore, Lynn.”

“You will again,” she said, “you just need to remember what you love and the words will come.” I realized that moment that it was with her words that Lynn told us all, every day, that she loved us.

I wish she were here to know that today, for the first time in over two years, I sat down at a blank document and the words appeared. I remember what I love: a special friendship with a woman who helped shape who I am today. Goodspeed, Lynn Bartels, I love you.