LDL. “Today Didn’t Go as Planned”: A Difficult ER Trip, a Baptism, and a House Full of Love as Will’s Family Holds On to Faith

Some days begin heavy before your feet even touch the floor.

In this fictional-style family update, that is exactly how today started: with sadness so deep it felt like it was waiting in the room. But even with that weight pressing in, Will’s mom made a quiet decision—she would hold on, and she would look for the sunshine anyway.

And then, as these journeys often do, the day took its own turn.

Because pain doesn’t check the calendar. It doesn’t ask whether the family has already been through enough. It just shows up, demanding attention.

Today, Jason took Will to the ER because of Will’s pain level. For families living inside a long medical fight, those words carry a familiar ache. You can almost feel the drive—silent worry, hands gripping the wheel, a child trying to be brave, a parent trying not to fall apart.

At the hospital, doctors evaluated Will. The update brought one small relief: there were no acute findings. In other words, there was nothing immediately catastrophic that appeared to explain a sudden emergency.

No additional scans were run, either, because Will had just had scans on Friday. Sometimes, that’s how medicine has to work—balancing urgency with what has already been tested, weighing risk and benefit, and determining what can be learned right now versus what must be watched.

The option on the table was admission for stronger pain control. It’s the kind of choice that sounds straightforward to an outsider—but for a child who has spent so much time in hospital rooms, it can feel like an unbearable ask.

And that’s where Will’s own strength and exhaustion showed up in one decision:

Will chose to come home.

Not because the pain wasn’t real. Not because he was “fine.” But because he wanted what so many children want after too many hospital visits: the comfort of home. A familiar couch. Family voices in the background. A space that doesn’t smell like antiseptic and fear.

His mom said it plainly: “You know how much he hates the hospital.” Anyone who has watched a child endure long-term treatment understands that line. Hospitals can save lives, but they can also take something from a child—peace, routine, and the sense of being normal.

Will is pushing through. The family is trying to manage by laying down and keeping pain at a minimum.

And they ask for prayers.

The moment that breaks a mother’s heart

In the middle of this day, one detail landed like a punch.

What broke his mom’s heart most wasn’t just the ER trip. It wasn’t even the exhausting uncertainty. It was something Will said—something a child should never have to say.

She wrote that she’s hearing him start to point to different places on his body and ask:

“Is this a spot too, Mom? Because I think I can feel pain here.”

That question carries an ocean of fear. It’s not only a child describing pain—it’s a child trying to understand what his body is doing. It’s a child who has learned, far too young, that new pain can mean new worry.

For a parent, that’s unbearable. Because you can’t answer it the way you want to.

You want to say, “No, sweetheart. It’s nothing.”
You want to say, “It will go away. You’re safe.”
You want to say, “This isn’t happening anymore.”

But when you’re living inside a cancer fight, you often can’t promise what you wish you could promise.

So instead, his mom did what so many parents do when words fail:

She prayed.

“God PLEASE heal our baby.”

A different afternoon than expected

The day could have been consumed entirely by hospital walls. It almost was.

But instead of spending the afternoon at Children’s, Will’s mom found herself in a place where she could breathe, even if only for a moment.

She attended an incredible church service where she says she could feel God’s presence. She watched Charlie be baptized. And in that moment—amid everything uncertain—she felt peace wash over her.

There are times when life feels like it is being held together by medical plans and prayers. And in that church service, she found a kind of anchoring: a reminder that faith is not only something you cling to in emergencies, but something that can still give you peace when you’re exhausted.

She packed their things and started heading toward Birmingham, expecting to return to the hospital world again.

And then her phone rang.

Jason called and told her something she didn’t expect:

They were already on their way home.

Home again—together

In a season full of fear, togetherness becomes its own kind of miracle.

Now they are all back home. And the update describes a scene that feels quietly sacred: their house full of family, friends, love, and just a little bit of normalcy.

Not the kind of normal that pretends everything is fine. But the kind of normal that says: we are here, and we are together, and we will take this moment while we have it.

His mom asked Will if he wanted her to fix her bed for him.

His answer was simple—and it said everything:

“No. I want to lay on the couch and be with everyone.”

That line is both heartbreaking and beautiful. It’s a child choosing comfort, choosing connection, choosing family over isolation. It’s a reminder that the greatest gift in hard seasons is not always a medical breakthrough—it’s being surrounded by love.

Looking toward tomorrow

The family shared that tomorrow they hope to hear from oncology to see if radiation may be an option. Another step. Another possibility. Another careful decision in a journey that never seems to stop demanding them.

And yet, even after a day that started in sadness and turned into an ER visit, the message ends in faith.

“I don’t know God’s plans for us,” she wrote, “but I trust Him. I have faith. And I know without a doubt that God is with us through everything.”

And then, one line that holds the whole day:

“Thank You, God, for the way this day ended instead of how it began.”

Because sometimes, that’s the only way to survive: one day at a time—finding the sunshine where you can, holding on to each other, and trusting that even in the hard, God is still present.