The year was closing quietly, not with urgency or spectacle, but with the gentle weight of days that had been lived fully and honestly.
In the small world she inhabited, time did not rush forward.
It moved carefully, almost respectfully, as if aware that every moment mattered more than usual.
Christmas had arrived not as a flurry of chaos, but as a pause.
A breath.
A soft exhale after months of holding it in.
There had been no updates for a while, and not because life had stopped, but because life had been happening in the most intimate ways.
The kind of ways that don’t translate easily into words.
The kind that are felt more than shared.
Christmas morning unfolded with warmth rather than noise.
There were familiar faces, close embraces, and the quiet gratitude of simply being together.
Laughter drifted through the house, not loud or forced, but real.
The kind that settles into the heart and stays there.
The holidays stretched gently, offering space to rest, to heal, to remember what mattered most.
New Year’s Eve came without pressure.
There was no countdown anxiety, no crowded rooms, no expectations to perform joy.
Instead, the night belonged to the barn.
To close friends.
To children riding four-wheelers under open skies.
Fireworks cracked softly in the distance, lighting up the darkness without overwhelming it.
The cold air carried the smell of earth and smoke and something deeply familiar.
It felt safe.
It felt grounding.
For a few hours, time loosened its grip.
But even in moments of peace, the body remembers what the heart tries to forget.
She caught the same sickness Charlie had been fighting.
It crept in quietly.
No dramatic warning.
Just a slow heaviness that settled into her bones.
She pushed through the night anyway.
Smiled when needed.
Stayed present.
Held on until she made it home a little after one in the morning.
That was when the strength ran out.
The night was long.
Restless.
Unforgiving.
And the next day was no kinder.
The body demanded attention, rest, surrender.
Tomorrow would be clinic day.
Another step on a road that had already asked so much.
Scans were scheduled for January eighth and ninth.
Dates that hovered in the background of every thought.
Unspoken, but never forgotten.
Still, there was space for small mercies.
One evening, she went out to dinner at Nick’s in the Stix.
There was live music.
A couple of close friends.
Simple food.
Simple conversation.
It did her heart good.
Not in a dramatic way.
But in the quiet way that reminds a person they are still alive.
Still connected.
Still allowed moments of joy.
Being in bed by midnight felt like a victory.
Rest felt like rebellion against exhaustion.
The boys had been hunting since Friday.
Or at least, that’s what the calendar said.
The truth was, the seventy-degree weather had little interest in cooperating with tradition.
Not much hunting happened.
But that wasn’t the point.
The point was late-night fire pit talks.
Four-wheeler rides that kicked up dust and laughter.
Inside jokes.
Teasing.
Moments that would be remembered long after the season ended.
This was what it was all about.
Connection.
Presence.
Shared time.
Charlie, meanwhile, continued battling stomach issues.
The same stubborn bug that refused to leave quietly.
Some days were better.
Some were not.
Patience became a daily practice.
So did grace.
Sunday morning arrived gently.
She went to church alone.
Not out of loneliness, but out of circumstance.
And yet, the sanctuary did not feel empty.
It felt full.
Full of reassurance.
Full of truth.
She worshiped and knew, deeply and without doubt, that God was all around her.
Not distant.
Not waiting.
Present.
So many people were carrying their own struggles.
Illness.
Fear.
Loss.
Uncertainty.
Different battles, same weight.
And still, the message remained steady.
Keep your eyes on Him.
Especially on the hardest days.
Especially when answers feel far away.
Especially when the night is long.
Because even then, He is still with you.
Not absent.
Not silent.
Walking every step.
Holding every tear.
And in that knowing, there was peace.
Not the absence of hardship.
But the presence of hope.
