The evening had started like any other, calm and unassuming, a quiet routine most families don’t know will become etched in their memories forever.
She returned home from work just before six, feeling the familiar tiredness that settles into your shouldersâheavy, but not yet sinking into your heart.
The house was quiet, full of the gentle hum of daily life, carrying with it the soft expectation of an ordinary night ahead. Earlier, Will had promised his grandmother he would come downstairs around eight to watch a movie together.
A simple promise. No rush. No urgency. Just the comfort of knowing theyâd spend time together.
Then, at 7:30, the phone rang.
When she picked it up, she immediately knew something was terribly wrong.
âMom, can you come here?â Willâs voice was soft, weak.
It wasnât the usual casual tone of a boy calling out from another room. It was the voice of someone in pain, someone fighting to stay calm.
She rushed upstairs, her steps quickening with every floor.
When she opened the door to his room, her heart dropped.
Will was sitting in his gaming chair, tears streaming down his face.
Will doesnât cry.
He never had before.
Seeing him like this was more terrifying than any words he couldâve spoken.
He told her the pain in his chest was unbearable, shooting into his back. He couldnât stand.
In that moment, her mind went straight to the worst fear.
The tumor.
The aggressiveness.
The harsh reality of how long he had been off chemotherapy.
Jason tried to help him stand, but the attempt only made the pain worse. Will cried harder, his body refusing to cooperate.
They tried again and again, but eventually, they had to face the truth.
They couldnât get him down the stairs.
Jason called 911. She called Childrenâs Oncology.
The paramedics arrived swiftly. Calm, professional, and kind, they assessed Will with care and explained their plan.
They wanted to take him to DCH and wait for a transport to the Children’s Hospital.
But that felt impossible.
Waiting seemed too dangerous. Too uncertain.
It felt like surrender.
They needed to get him there, northbound, now.
In desperation and love, they made a choice.
Jason helped Will into the truck, and they drove straight to the hospital. She followed close behind in her car.
As soon as she shut her car door, the weight of everything hit her all at once.
The fear, the anxiety, the uncertaintyâeverything she had been holding back suddenly broke free.
She cried. She prayed. She spoke to God out loud, as she often does in moments like this.
Worship is her way of surviving the heaviest moments.
She prayed for strength. She prayed for peace. She prayed for Willâs pain to ease.
And in the midst of the darkness, something small yet sacred happened.
A familiar worship song came on the radio.
The same song that had carried her through so many tough times before.
She turned up the volume and sang as loud as she could.
Her voice wasnât perfect, but her faith was fierce.
She refused to let fear steal their joy.
They had made it home for Thanksgiving. That was enough. That mattered.
âAll my life, He has been so, so good,â she sang through tears.
The song felt like a reminderâthey were not alone.
They arrived at the emergency room, and the doctors moved quickly.
Tests were ordered: a CT scan, an X-ray, an EKG. Machines hummed, monitors beeped.
Time seemed to stretch in that uncomfortable silence.
And then, true to Willâs spirit, a flicker of hope came.
He asked, with a small smile, âDo you think Iâll still be able to go elk hunting next week?â
That questionâsimple but powerfulâwas Will.
Strong. Hopeful. Still dreaming beyond the hospital room.
Her heart exhaled.
In that moment, she knew. He was still here. Still fighting.
She recorded a snippet of that song, knowing how important it was to share it with Will.
To remind himâhis mama wasnât going to let fear win.
She shared it with him, and with everyone who had been praying.
She felt their prayers, lifting her up. Holding her steady.
And in that ER room, something miraculous happened.
Will laughed.
The room was filled with relief, light, and the fragile but resilient sound of joy, refusing to be taken.
Three hearts sat together in that room.
Tired. Scared. Grateful. Alive.
And in that moment, faith was louder than fear.
