1. A Morning of Heavy Sighs and the Search for “Sunshine”
There are mornings when, the moment you open your eyes, the weight of reality presses down so hard it feels like it might crush your chest. For a mother whose child is battling cancer, the morning doesn’t start with a cup of coffee or the soft glow of dawn. It starts by checking the child’s breathing and bracing for the waves of pain that are sure to follow.
This morning, I woke up with an immense sadness—a heavy, hollow feeling that only those who have stood in the valley of uncertainty can truly understand. But in Will’s world, sadness is a luxury we cannot afford to dwell in for long. I had to take a deep breath, grip the remnants of my faith, and tell myself: “I must find the sunshine, even if it’s storming today.” Finding the light isn’t about denying the pain; it’s about choosing not to let the pain swallow you whole.
2. The ER and the Choice of a Little Warrior
Our plans shattered when Will’s pain level surged past his ability to endure. Jason had to rush him to the Emergency Room (ER). Those cold hospital corridors, the sharp scent of antiseptic, and the constant, rhythmic beeping of machines are a recurring nightmare.
After hours of weary waiting, the doctors found no new acute issues—his scans from Friday still told the current story. The choice was laid out clearly: admission for stronger IV pain medication, or going home.
Will, a boy who has already spent far too much of his childhood within the sterile white walls of a hospital, made his decision. He wanted to go home. He chose to manage his agony on a familiar couch rather than a hospital bed tangled in wires. He is “pushing through”—stretching the limits of his own endurance. Watching him be so brave makes me swell with pride, yet it feels like my heart is being squeezed tight by an invisible hand.
3. “Mom, is this a spot too?”
There are things a child says that carry more trauma than any medical report ever could. My heart broke into a million pieces when I heard Will start to point to different places on his body, asking in a trembling voice: “Mom, is this a spot (tumor) too? Because I think I can feel pain here, too…”
It was a moment of peak helplessness. How can a mother answer that question when she, too, is trembling at the cruelty of the disease’s invasion? I could only cry out in my soul: “God, PLEASE heal our baby!” His physical pain is one thing, but the fear in a child’s eyes when he feels the illness spreading inside him is a pain that no parent is ever prepared to witness.
4. Light from a Baptism and Supernatural Peace
While Will and Jason were at the hospital, I found myself in a very different place: a beautiful, sacred church service. I watched Charlie be baptized. In the moment the water was poured, I felt a wave of peace—an unexplainable, supernatural calm—wash over my soul.
That is God’s way. He knew I was exhausted. He knew my heart was bleeding. So, He drew me into His presence to refuel my spirit. Instead of sitting in a hospital waiting room consumed by anxiety, I was bathed in worship and prayer. That peace was the armor I needed to stand firm as I prepared to head toward Birmingham.
But then, another small miracle happened: Jason called to say they were already on their way home. Everything shifted in an instant. God did not leave us separated in a lonely hospital afternoon; He brought us back together.
5. The Couch—Where Love is Stronger than Morphine
Currently, our home doesn’t feel like a sickroom; it feels like a sanctuary. The house is full of family, friends, and the hum of conversation. There is a precious sense of “normalcy” here.
I asked Will if he wanted to lie in my big, comfortable bed, but his response reminded me exactly why he fought to come home: “No, Mom. I want to lie on the couch and be with everyone.” Will doesn’t just need a dose of morphine right now; he needs the warmth of his people. He needs to feel that he is still part of the vibrant, loving world—not isolated in a sterile room. On that couch, surrounded by those who love him most, the pain seems just a little bit easier to carry.
6. Tomorrow and Absolute Trust
Tomorrow, we wait to hear from the oncologist to see if radiation is an option to shrink the tumors and give him some relief. We are still standing at a crossroads covered in fog.
I don’t know God’s ultimate plan for our family. I don’t know why we must walk this path of thorns. But there is one thing I know for certain: God is here. He is in this room, on that couch with Will, and in my tears of hope.
Faith isn’t about knowing the outcome; it’s about trusting the One who holds the outcome. Thank You, God, for a day that began in panic and tears but ended in the warmth of family and Your perfect peace.
We are not stopping. We will continue to MARCH FORTH, because we know we are not walking alone. 🙏✨❤️
