Dan was back in the hospital.
Again.
Cellulitis came raging in early that morning, fast and unforgiving, like a fire that had been quietly waiting for the right moment to explode.
At first, Dan refused to believe it.
He told himself it was nothing, just another flare, another bad day that would pass if he pushed hard enough.
Denial clung to him for the entire day, because who wants to be admitted to a hospital on the eve of Christmas Eve when a wife and six children are counting down the hours with shining eyes and restless excitement.
The house was full of plans.
Lists were written.
Cookies were half-baked.
The kids whispered about presents and laughed too loudly, unable to contain the magic building inside them.
Dan watched it all unfold from the couch, his jaw tight, his foot throbbing, his heart heavier with every passing hour.
Pain crept higher.
Swelling worsened.
The redness spread in a way that could no longer be ignored.
Still, he stayed.
Because fathers stay.
Because husbands stay.
Because sometimes love looks like stubbornness wrapped in hope.
By midnight, hope ran out.
The pain was no longer something he could grit his teeth through.
It screamed through his body, loud and relentless, stealing his breath and breaking his resolve.
After midnight, Dan finally agreed to go to the local emergency room.
The drive was quiet.
Too quiet.
His wife watched the road, one hand on the wheel, the other clenched in fear she refused to voice.
They both knew this wasn’t just another visit.
Doctors moved quickly.
Too quickly for comfort.
Words like “infection,” “severe,” and “transfer” filled the air.
By around 3:30 in the morning, Dan was loaded into an ambulance, the flashing lights cutting through the darkness as he was sent to the University hospital.
The ride was long.
The pain was longer.
That night, Dan screamed.
Not from fear.
Not from panic.
But from pain that was not being properly treated.
Again.
The hours dragged on as sleep slipped further and further away.
Each minute felt like punishment.
Each breath felt earned.
His wife sat helplessly nearby, listening to the man she loved cry out, her heart breaking in ways she didn’t know were possible.
Why was this happening again.
Why was relief always just out of reach.
Why did it feel like they were screaming into a system that could not hear them.
Morning came without mercy.
Christmas Eve arrived inside hospital walls.
Dan’s toes, at least, were looking better, a small spark of hope in an otherwise bleak landscape.
They clung to that.
They had to.
Pictures were taken just before Dan left for the ER.
Forced smiles.
Heavy eyes.
The kind of exhaustion that sinks into bones.
If anyone wondered whether they looked tired, the answer was yes.
If anyone sensed something was wrong, they were right.
This was not how Christmas Eve was supposed to begin.
Dan spent Christmas in the hospital.
The children opened presents through FaceTime, their small faces pressed close to the screen as they tried to be brave.
They smiled.
They laughed.
And they kept looking for Daddy, hoping he might somehow step into the frame.
Dan drifted between pain and exhaustion, fighting to stay present while his body demanded rest he could not get.
Later that day, the family visited the hospital.
Hugs were careful.
Smiles were fragile.
When it was time to leave, the hardest moment came.
Closing the hospital room door.
Walking away without Daddy coming home.
On Christmas.
It shattered something inside all of them.
The day after was quiet.
Heavy.
Full of thoughts no one wanted but couldn’t escape.
As his wife edited a video later, a question kept rising uninvited.
Would life ever return to normal.
They missed everything.
Projects left unfinished.
Trips to the park.
Camping under open skies.
Date nights that once felt ordinary.
All of it gone, replaced by hospital visits and uncertainty.
This year had been brutally hard.
And somehow, 2026 was already coming in hot, and not in a good way.
Bad news stacked on bad news.
Discouragement lingered like a fog.
Still, hope found a crack.
They were almost close enough to afford the van they desperately needed.
One less stress.
One small victory.
Gratitude filled the spaces fear left behind.
As Christmas songs played, especially one from the new David movie, the family leaned into faith.
They were thankful for a Savior.
Thankful for a God who knows them intimately.
A God who remains faithful even when everything else feels unstable.
Without their testimonies, they knew they would not survive this season.
Love held them.
Faith carried them.
And even in pain, they chose to keep believing.
