1. Delayed Miracles and Broken Plans
The holiday season always arrives with twinkling lights, laughter, and the promise of reunions. But for our family—and perhaps for many others facing the cruel reality of cancer—this Christmas carries a completely different face. Instead of the smell of roasting turkey or the crackle of a fireplace, we are met with the scent of antiseptic and the steady, rhythmic beeping of an IV pump.
Today, we had to miss our traditional family Christmas with the Taylor side. It is a pain beyond words to pick up the phone and say, “We can’t make it.” Cancer has taught me the harshest and most painful lesson: Don’t ever make plans too far in advance. Because in the world of little warriors, the schedule isn’t decided by a calendar, but by sudden fevers, dropping blood counts, or the unannounced agony that ravages a small body without warning.
2. Silent Sacrifice and “Angels” in Real Life
In the storm of despair, I still see small glimmers of human kindness. I am so incredibly thankful for Julie—who opened her arms to make a way for Charlie to stay and join the party. Seeing my younger son still able to enjoy a bit of the holiday atmosphere while his brother fights makes my heart a little lighter. I also silently thank God that Jason was able to get Will to see his Mimi and Poppie earlier this week. It felt like a preparation we didn’t know we needed, so that at the very least, he could see his grandparents before this wave of exhaustion hit.
But for the rest of the family, I know this is an overwhelming emotional weight. To see your children and grandchildren in pain, to see an empty chair at the Christmas table—it is a form of torture for any family. “This is just too much for everyone.”
3. To the Mothers “Stationed” at the Hospital
Tonight, as I look out the hospital window at the distant city lights, I ask myself: Are there any other mothers fighting in the hospital this holiday season?
I know you are out there. You are sitting in that uncomfortable recliner next to your child’s hospital bed. You are learning to read monitor vitals like a medical professional. You are holding back sobs so your child doesn’t wake up. And perhaps, you are feeling a profound sense of loneliness while the rest of the world celebrates.
I want to tell you: You are not alone. Between us exists an invisible but unbreakable bond—the love of a mother willing to walk through hell for her child. If we cannot sit together at a dinner table, let us sit together in prayer.
4. Let’s Hold Hands Through Prayer
Compassion and faith are the only weapons we have right now. I call on everyone—whether you are at home or in a hospital room—to join us in spirit.
- Pray for Peace: Pray that the pain leaves these children’s bodies, even if just for a few hours so they can close their eyes and sleep.
- Pray for Strength: Pray that the mothers and fathers have the grit to stand firm and be a steady anchor for their children.
- Pray for Miracles: Pray that treatments respond well, so that by next Christmas, we can all be home.
Don’t just look at what we have lost this season. Look at what we are still holding onto: hope. A prayer lit from a hospital bed has the power to move heaven itself.
5. Conclusion: A Season of Relentless Hope
We may miss the parties, but we will never miss out on our faith. Our Christmas this year is tucked away in tight hand-holding, in whispered comforts, and in the belief that God is present even in the darkest hospital rooms.
To all the mothers fighting: stay strong! Tonight, I will pray for your child just as I pray for my Will. Let’s hold hands through prayer, because when we stand together, the pain is shared, and the hope is multiplied.
“To every mother fighting in a hospital this holiday season: You are not alone. Let’s hold hands through prayer.” 🙏✨
#PrayForWill #CancerWarriors #HospitalChristmas #MothersHeart #FaithOverFear #MiracleForOurChildren #HoldHandsInPrayer
