The evening had started like any other—quiet and uneventful, a calm that seemed to promise nothing out of the ordinary. Will had just returned home from work around six, tired in that way that settles into your body but doesn’t quite reach your soul yet.
The house felt familiar, filled with the soft sounds of routine and the peaceful anticipation of a regular night. Earlier, Will had made a simple promise to his grandmother to come downstairs around eight to watch a movie together. It was the kind of casual commitment that didn’t seem urgent.
But at 7:30, the phone rang.
The moment she answered, she knew something was terribly wrong.
“Mom, can you come here?” Will’s voice was weak, strained with pain. It wasn’t the voice of a boy casually calling from another room. It was the voice of someone in distress, fighting through something difficult.
She rushed upstairs, her heart pounding as she quickened her steps. When she entered his room, she froze. Will was sitting in his gaming chair, tears streaming down his face. Will, who never cried. Seeing him like that was more terrifying than any words he could have said.
He told her the pain in his chest was unbearable, radiating into his back, and he couldn’t stand up. His body refused to move, and his face twisted with the agony. They tried to help him up, but each attempt only intensified his pain. Finally, they accepted what their hearts had already known: they couldn’t get him downstairs.
Panic set in, and Jason called 911 while she reached out to Children’s Oncology. The paramedics arrived quickly, calm and professional, and carefully assessed Will’s condition. They explained that they would take him to the nearby hospital and then transfer him to a children’s hospital. But in that moment, it felt like waiting was the hardest part.
Waiting felt dangerous. Waiting felt like surrender. They needed to get him to a specialist, and they needed to do it immediately.
With hearts full of love and desperation, they made a decision. Jason helped Will into the truck, and they drove straight to Children’s Hospital, with her following closely behind in her own car.
Once she shut the door of her car, the weight of everything hit her all at once. She cried. She prayed. She spoke to God out loud, as she always did in moments like this. Worship had become her lifeline in these heavy, uncertain times. She prayed for strength, for peace, and for Will’s pain to ease.
In the midst of the darkness, something small yet sacred happened. One of her favorite worship songs came on the radio—the very song that had carried her through so many tough moments. She turned up the volume and sang as loudly as she could. Her voice wasn’t perfect, but her faith was fierce. She refused to let fear or despair take hold of them.
They had made it home for Thanksgiving, and that meant everything.
“All my life, He has been so, so good,” she sang through her tears, feeling the song wrap around her like a reminder that they were not alone.
They arrived at the emergency room, and doctors quickly moved into action. A CT scan, X-ray, and EKG were ordered. Machines hummed, and monitors beeped. Time seemed to stretch on in uncomfortable silence.
But even in the midst of this, Will’s unwavering hope shone through.
He asked, “Do you think I’ll still be able to go elk hunting next week?”
In that moment, her heart finally exhaled. Will’s question—filled with his usual strength and optimism—was a glimpse of the boy she knew, refusing to be defined by his pain.
She recorded a snippet of the worship song and shared it with Will, reminding him of something important: Mama wasn’t going to let fear win tonight. She sent the video to others who had been praying, silently thanking them, because she felt their support—she felt it lifting her up.
And then, in the exam room, something miraculous happened. Will laughed.
The room filled with light. The fragile, powerful sound of joy refused to be stolen from them.
In that small moment, amidst the fear and the unknown, faith had spoken louder than fear.
Three hearts sat together, tired, scared, but alive. And in that moment, they were not alone.
