Known and Loved

There are people in our lives who know us without needing words. They read the shift in your shoulders, the weight in your breath, the quiet that settles when joy leaves the room. They don't ask what's wrong, they simply sit with you in it. Maggie was that for me.

Twenty years together. She was already my constant companion when COVID arrived, pressing isolation down like a physical thing. The world had stopped. Connection had become dangerous. But Maggie was there, steady and present, asking nothing except to share the space I occupied.

What struck me most wasn't her intelligence, though she was sharp and observant in ways that felt almost human. It was her ability to know. She could sense when I was hurting before I fully recognized it myself. She'd curl up close on the days when sadness sat heavy. And on the rare days when joy crept back, she seemed to celebrate it with me, her purr a small vibration of shared happiness.

That's love in its purest form. Not grand gestures or constant activity. Just being known. Being met exactly where you are.

Scripture tells us that love comes from God, and that whoever loves has been born of God and knows God (1 John 4:7–8). When Maggie loved me with that quiet attunement, she was showing me something divine. She was reflecting back to me what it means to be truly seen, truly valued, truly accompanied.

She's been gone for a few months now, but that gift remains. She taught me that presence is the deepest language of love. That sometimes the holiest thing we can do is simply sit with someone in their grief, their joy, their uncertainty, and say without words: You are not alone. I see you. I'm here.

And yet, there is a presence even deeper than any earthly companion. God knows every thought before it forms, every tear before it falls, every joy before it blooms. You are deeply known—not just by those you love, but first and always by the God who created you and sees you completely. You are seen. You are loved. You are never truly alone.