As I sat eating lunch in a restaurant across from Family Court yesterday, my phone buzzed.  I glanced down, expecting to see that someone had made a Words With Friends move, or posted to my Facebook page.  But the icon indicated an incoming message so I pulled the phone from my pocketbook to read.  And my stomach fell to the floor as I saw these words:  Maddie McDowell died last night.

I met the McDowells when my son attended Purple Dragon Pre-School.  A compact, blonde, beaming child, Maddie sashayed around the place tossing her braids and bestowing her glowing smile on everyone.  My son moved upstairs to PS1 Elementary before Maddie did, she being younger.  But still we saw her on the shared playground, dancing everywhere, running around, laughing, excited about life.

Over the years, I kept some contact with Maddie because of my family’s continued friendship with her neighbors, the Kenyon-Vogts.  I watched her grow to young womanhood and then began to follow her life on Facebook.  Once in a while she would post a sad note, and from time to time, I messaged words of encouragement to her.  But mostly she shared her zest for life, her love of her family, her excitement about cooking, and her delight in her job as a nanny.

I last saw Maddie in person at a family gathering at the Kenyon-Vogt household just a few months ago.  We talked only briefly, but she hugged me on leaving, and the radiance of her smile lingered after the door closed behind her.  Just this week, she spoke of medical issues confronting her but nonetheless, posted about family night making dinner for her mother, and about watching a movie snuggled on the sofa in her parents’ home.

Any complaint that I might have; any difficulty that I must confront; any loss that I struggle to overcome; pales in comparison to what Mary Ann and Steve McDowell, and their son Kiloh, must feel today.  Their love and their loss can know no comfort; and to say that time will heal the pain they feel today makes small mockery of the depth of their grief.

It’s the fourth day of the twenty-seventh month of My Year Without Complaining.  One life has ended; for one beautiful soul, life on this planet does not continue.  But her sweet spirit touched everyone whom she knew, from those of us who were tangential to her world to those who occupied the close-knit circle in which she thrived.  I cannot say that I knew Madeline McDowell well; but I am glad that I knew her at all.  Heaven has another angel; and here on earth, life continues just a little dimmer for our loss.