I’ve liked Maggie since the first time I read her words.  It’s like that in the blogosphere sometimes, isn’t it?  There are these women–from small towns and big cities, some who struggle to get by and others who live in privilege–and all of their stories touch me.  By turn, they are funny, helpful, dramatic, and very, very serious.  Because I am out here, too, I realize that I don’t really know them, these women who feel like friends.  I don’t know what they’re thinking or feeling or even if the story they’re telling really happened this week.  We choose our words and which stories we share carefully.  Thoughtfully.  I know that.

And yet, it feels like Maggie shares more than many of us do.  Perhaps she’s just better at the sharing.  Either way, readers flock to her because she is so eloquent and her words ring so true.  She’s the kind of girl you want to share a drink with, except she can’t, and she’s been honest about that incredibly difficult and private struggle.  She’s the kind of girl you think you might have shared secrets with in high school, except she probably wouldn’t have, and the way she weaves the story of that pain is so real it makes me want to weep.  But she’s also the kind of girl you want to share a laugh with, or a long, philosophical discussion, or a walk on the beach.

Because of that, I think, I felt her sadness, really felt it, when I read her post today.   I feel sad because she’s right, and because she shares the pain of loss in a way that few of us ever could.  I feel sad because a wife will be a widow and children will lose their father and because, like Maggie, I don’t think I could ever respond in the way this couple has.  Want to be inspired?  Read this post.  But be ready for the sadness, too, because it will come.  It will come.