Some pain is too deep for words, and some silence is too loud to ignore.
Right now, someone I love more than life is walking through a fire I wouldn’t wish on anyone. She’s living inside a storm that keeps shifting shape, and all I can do is stand outside the door—waiting, praying, aching to be let in.
But the door stays closed.
Not because she doesn’t love me. Not because I’ve done anything wrong. But because when you’re surviving something soul-shattering, sometimes you just don’t have the strength to reach for anyone—not even the ones who would crawl through glass for you.
I get it. I really do.
But it still hurts.
I hurt because I love her.
I hurt because I see her pain and can’t absorb even an ounce of it.
I hurt because I’ve always been the fixer, the helper, the strong one—and this time, there’s nothing I can do but pray and pace the floor.
There’s a special kind of grief that comes with loving someone through something they can’t talk about. It’s lonely. It’s quiet. It feels like standing on a porch in the pouring rain with your hand on the door, hoping one day it’ll open, but knowing today isn’t that day.
I’m not writing this for answers. I’m not looking for pity. I’m writing this because maybe someone else out there knows what it feels like to carry love with nowhere to put it. Maybe you, too, are grieving someone who’s still alive—someone who’s hurting in ways you can’t reach.
You’re not alone.
And neither is she.
Even in the silence, even with the miles or moments between us—she is fiercely, relentlessly loved.
So tonight, I’ll do what I always do.
I’ll light a candle. Whisper a prayer. Cry if I need to.
And keep loving her from the porch, until she’s ready to come out and sit beside me.
God is near. Even here.
Today we lift up ******* and ********* into Your holy hands. You gave them to Maggie as gifts, and she treasures them—even through silence and heartbreak. Lord, wrap ************ in peace today. Let whatever stress she’s carrying melt off her shoulders. Speak into the parts of her that are overwhelmed, even if she doesn’t say it out loud.
For *********—God, cover her with joy that’s real. Let laughter come easier. Let peace sit heavier. Let her feel the love, even when she won’t speak it back.
Father, break every wall built from misunderstanding, pain, or pride. Replace it with bricks of grace, compassion, and truth. And while we wait, we trust. Because no one writes better reunion stories than You do.
And Lord… if all Maggie can be for now is a prayer warrior—they better know she’s a relentless one. Faithful. Fierce. And full of fire.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
AND NOW - WE REDIRECT
The Gospel According to Floof-a-Loof: New Hair, Who Dis?
In all this grief, I have to find a way to smile.
Because if I let myself stay in the heaviness too long, I know it’ll swallow me whole. So today, instead of crying for the hundredth time—I’m redirecting.
Let’s talk about something lighter.
Let’s talk about Floof-a-Loof and his post-grooming glow-up.
Y’all. He went in looking like a Muppet who wandered through a wind tunnel… and came out looking like the associate pastor of a small-town revival church with a flair for judgment and just a hint of sass.
His haircut says:
✔️ I tithe in treats and accept belly rubs as blessings.
✔️ I have a bark-to-praise ratio that rivals most worship leaders.
✔️ I may be little, but I’m mighty—and also very fluffy.
He strutted out of the garage like he had just booked a national tour.
He’s got that “fresh anointing and a peanut butter biscuit” energy.
And me? I smiled.
Like really smiled.
Because somehow this tiny, dramatic, overly expressive fur-ball knew I needed a break from crying—and decided to show up looking like a Christian influencer with a blowout.
There’s still pain in my heart. That hasn’t changed.
But there’s also joy in my house.
And sometimes that joy has four paws, a new haircut, and a serious attitude.
So thank you, Lincoln.
You may not solve my problems, but you sure remind me to breathe between the breakdowns.
and, we'll wind down the night with
Things I Can’t Seem to Find, Fix, or Figure Out (But I’m Still Trying):
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My second Croc. Cow print and Coquette charms, still missing. Possibly kidnapped by Lincoln. Possibly swallowed by the laundry pile. Possibly gone forever.
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My motivation to do laundry. It’s been three weeks. I’m one day away from cutting armholes in a pillowcase.
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My water bottle’s respect for my 1500 ml fluid restriction. It’s offended. I’m offended. We’re all a little dry and dramatic.
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My podcast attention span. I listen. I cry. I forget what I’m listening to.
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My peace—but I light a candle and try to fake it ‘til Jesus makes it.
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The emotional strength to not scream into the air because I JUST WANT MY CROC BACK.
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My funeral dress, which finally came today—so praise God I won’t have to go to Pop’s service wrapped in a bedsheet like biblical grief couture.
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My lungs, which deserve better. I had no cigarettes today. Not one. Because my family has suffered enough, and they do not need to bury mama because of a damn Marlboro. I picked the habit back up seven months ago after quitting for over a year. I know better. I want better. Pray for me.
A One-Line Prayer Because Today Is a Lot:
Lord, help me stay hydrated, smoke-free, emotionally steady, and just find the dang Croc.
With big love (and mismatched shoes),
Maggie & Lincoln
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