LS ‘New Developments in Will Roberts’ Journey: Managing Pain, Preparing for Focused Radiation, Hope Remains’

No one called their name back into an exam room.

Only a still moment in a place that had become all too familiar.

The hallway opened ahead of them, bathed in the soft glow of the afternoon.

Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting quiet patterns across the floor.

A gentle breeze slipped in through an open door—barely felt, yet unmistakably alive.

And there was Jason, hands steady on the wheelchair, guiding Will forward.

One movement.

One breath.

One moment at a time.

For an instant, her heart caught.

Not out of fear—but recognition.

After everything they had endured over the past four days, she hadn’t realized how deeply she needed this pause.

Four days of pain that refused to relent.

Four days of waiting that felt endless.

Four days of watching her child bear far more than any child should.

Hospitals had become their world.

Radiology waiting rooms had turned into places of whispered prayers.

Hallways had become long stretches of hope tangled tightly with exhaustion.

And yet, in this quiet second, something broke through.

The light.

The breeze.

The simple act of a father pushing his son forward when the weight of the road felt unbearable.

It felt like God speaking softly.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Radiation had finally been scheduled for December 22nd and December 29th.

Dates now heavy with meaning.

Dates marked not only on calendars, but etched into their hearts.

As she stood there watching Will inch forward, Scripture surfaced effortlessly.

“And God said, Let there be light.”

The words didn’t come because everything suddenly felt easier.

Not because the pain had lifted.

Not because fear had disappeared.

But because even in the deepest hardship, God still breathes light into darkness.

She saw Him clearly in that hallway.

Not behind them.

Not watching from afar.

But ahead of them.

Making a way.

Holding space for their grief, their fear, their perseverance.

Reminding her they had never walked this road alone.

And they never would.

They would keep moving forward.

Not because they were strong enough on their own.

But because the Light was leading the way.

Trust in that Light had become their lifeline.

Faith was no longer abstract.

It was survival.

Earlier that day, Granny had stayed with Will.

Her presence calm and grounding—the kind of strength that doesn’t demand attention.

While appointments were made and phone calls answered, she sat faithfully beside him.

She listened.

She observed.

She loved.

Then, unexpectedly, the doorbell rang.

Once.

Then again.

Their beloved mail carrier stood outside, arms full—too many envelopes to fit inside the mailbox.

Card after card.

Letter after letter.

Notes sent from near and far.

Prayers folded into paper.

Love poured out in ink.

Hope delivered by hand.

Will spent hours reading them.

So many hours it could have counted as a full school day.

He smiled at messages written just for him.

He laughed at drawings.

He clutched the cards when the pain surged again.

The pain had not eased.

It pressed into his chest.

Wrapped tightly around his back.

Drained his strength and tested his resolve.

Then radiology called—urgent.

An appointment was set for the following morning.

Targeted radiation might help relieve the pain in his chest and back.

Might.

That word lingered heavily in the air.

Hope and uncertainty once again intertwined.

Still, gratitude filled the space.

Thank you for the prayers.

Thank you for the cards.

Thank you for the gifts for Will and Charlie.

Thank you for reminding them they were seen.

God was still present.

They could feel it.

In the waiting.

In the pain.

In the unanswered questions.

At moments throughout the day, Will’s humor returned.

Brief flashes—like sunlight breaking through clouds.

A joke.

A grin.

Reminders that he was still Will.

Still fighting.

Still himself.

Those moments were precious.

And they held them gently.

But the challenges didn’t stop.

Pain returned in Charlie’s other ear—the one with the tube still in place.

Another reminder that this journey did not follow a straight path.

Another test of patience.

Another call to trust.

Still, they pressed forward.

Because God had not left them.

Because the light was still there.

Because even when the road felt impossibly heavy, they were being carried forward.

By love.

By faith.

By a God who walks ahead, speaking light into the darkest hallways of human suffering.