ST.Latest Update on Will Roberts: Ongoing Pain, Targeted Radiation Planned, Family Holds Onto Hope

They were leaving UAB Radiology when it happened.

It was not a dramatic moment.

No alarms.

No sudden news.

No doctor calling them back into a room.

Just a quiet pause in a place they had grown far too familiar with.

The hallway stretched forward, washed in soft afternoon light.

Sunlight spilled through tall windows, touching the floor in gentle lines.

A breeze slipped in from an open doorway, barely noticeable, yet alive.

And there was Jason, hands firm on the wheelchair handles, pushing Will forward.

One step.

One breath.

One moment at a time.

For a split second, her heart stopped.

Not because of fear, but because of recognition.

After the last four days they had lived through, she needed this moment more than she had realized.

Four days of pain that refused to ease.

Four days of waiting that stretched longer than nights.

Four days of watching her child endure more than any child ever should.

Hospitals had become their landscape.

Radiology waiting rooms had become places of prayer.

Corridors had become pathways of hope and exhaustion intertwined.

And yet here, in this quiet instant, something broke through.

The light.

The breeze.

The simple act of a father pushing his son forward when the road felt impossibly heavy.

It felt like a whisper from God.

Not loud.

Not overwhelming.

Just enough.

They had managed to schedule radiation for December 22nd and December 29th.

Dates that now carried the weight of possibility.

Dates circled not just on calendars, but in their hearts.

Standing there, watching Will move forward inch by inch, Scripture surfaced in her mind without effort.

“And God said, Let there be light.”

The words echoed, not because everything suddenly felt easier.

Not because the pain had disappeared.

Not because fear had vanished.

But because even in the middle of the hardest moments, God still speaks light into darkness.

She could see Him so clearly in that hallway.

Not behind them.

Not watching from a distance.

But walking ahead of them.

Clearing the path.

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

Reminding her they were not doing this alone.

They never had been.

They would keep marching forward.

Not because they were strong enough.

But because the Light went before them.

Trusting that Light had become their lifeline.

Trusting God was no longer abstract.

It was survival.

Earlier that day, Granny had stayed with Will.

Her presence steady and quiet, the kind of strength that doesn’t announce itself.

While the family moved through appointments and phone calls, Granny sat beside him.

She listened.

She watched.

She loved.

Then something unexpected happened.

The doorbell rang.

Once.

Then again.

Their precious mail lady stood outside, arms full, unable to fit everything into the mailbox.

Card after card.

Envelope after envelope.

Messages from people near and far.

Prayers folded into paper.

Love written in ink.

Hope delivered by hand.

Will spent hours reading them.

So many hours that it could have counted as a full reading grade.

He smiled at words meant just for him.

He laughed at drawings.

He held the cards close when the pain surged again.

Pain had not let up.

It clung to his chest.

It wrapped around his back.

It drained his energy and tested his spirit.

Radiology called with urgency.

An appointment was scheduled for the next morning.

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

Might.

That word hovered heavily.

Hope and uncertainty intertwined once more.

Still, they said thank you.

Thank you for the prayers.

Thank you for the cards.

Thank you for the gifts for Will and Charlie.

Thank you for showing them they were seen.

God was still with them.

They felt it.

Even in the waiting.

Even in the ache.

Even in the unanswered questions.

At times that day, Will’s humor returned.

It flickered unexpectedly, like sunlight breaking through clouds.

A joke here.

A grin there.

Moments that reminded them he was still Will.

Still fighting.

Still himself.

Those moments were gifts.

And they held them carefully.

Yet the challenges did not stop.

Pain returned in Charlie’s other ear.

The one that still had the tube.

Another reminder that this journey did not move in straight lines.

Another test of patience and faith.

Still, they pressed on.

Because God was not absent.

Because light was still present.

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

By love.

By faith.

By a God who walks ahead, speaking light into the darkest corridors of human pain.