“I am dying,” her email began, “and I need a coach to help me stay focused on several projects I want to leave behind as memories for my sons and future grandchildren.”
The words hit me with a thud. Oh, my gosh; can I do that? I wondered, considering the emotional cost. But soon after, my heart committed to taking this journey as I slid into my seat in a Greek restaurant where we met for the first time in Seattle, Washington. As she unpacked her story, filled with surgery, chemo, baldness, and the rest, I searched her warm, open gaze, topped by loose, short curls, and I knew I would grow to love her. And I knew that as I walked this out, my heart would break over the losses her husband's extracurricular sexual activities would ultimately extract from her, and from the many who loved her.
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