Today was one of those days that leaves you completely emptied—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. A day that demanded everything we had to give, and then asked for more. But tonight, as we sit in recovery, there is something we hadn’t felt for hours: the ability to finally exhale.
We are officially on the other side of surgery.
The doctor came to us with words we had been desperately praying to hear. She is confident that she was able to reach both tumors and freeze them completely. Those words landed gently, but powerfully. After weeks of fear, preparation, and surrender, hearing that the procedure went as planned felt like a lifeline. Not the end of the journey—but a crucial step forward.
From the moment Will was taken back, time seemed to stretch in ways that are hard to describe. Minutes felt like hours. Silence felt unbearably loud. In those waiting moments, all control slips away. There is nothing left to do but trust—trust the hands of skilled doctors, trust the strength of your child, and trust God with what you cannot carry on your own.
And then came the moment we had been holding our breath for.
Will woke up.
Not only did he wake up—he spoke to us.
That sound, his voice, was the sweetest sound we heard all day. There truly are no words to describe how priceless that moment was. After everything his body had just endured, hearing him speak felt like a miracle wrapped in something so simple, yet so profound. It was grounding. Reassuring. Healing in its own way.
It reminded us why we fight so hard. Why we pray so relentlessly. Why we hold on, even when fear threatens to pull us under.
The surgery itself took so much out of him. As expected, the hours following the procedure have been difficult. The bladder spasms afterward have been especially hard on his little body, causing pain and discomfort that no child should have to endure. Watching him work through that pain is one of the hardest things we’ve ever done.
Pain has a way of testing everyone in the room—not just the one experiencing it. It stretches patience, breaks hearts, and forces you to confront how helpless you really are. All we could do was stay close, offer comfort, and pray—over and over—for relief, for peace, and for healing that moves swiftly.
So tonight, we ask again: please continue to pray. Pray specifically for pain relief. Pray for his body to respond gently and for healing to come quickly. Pray for rest—for him, and for us. Every prayer matters more than we can express.
To pass the long hours, we played dominoes. Simple moments. Quiet moments. Moments that helped distract from the discomfort and reminded us that joy can still exist, even in hospital rooms. We leaned hard on our faith today—harder than ever. Faith was not just a comfort; it was a necessity.
And I want to be honest here.
Today was a day I needed help being lifted back up.
The fear was real. Heavy. Overwhelming at times. There were moments when my knees felt weak, when my thoughts raced ahead to places I didn’t want them to go. The “what ifs” tried to take over. The waiting, the uncertainty, the sight of my child in pain—it all hit at once.
But here’s the truth: while the fear was real, my faith is stronger.
I stumbled today, but I did not fall. I leaned on God when I couldn’t stand on my own strength. I leaned on the prayers of so many people who have surrounded us with love and belief. And because of that, I found my footing again.
I’m back.
I’m steady.
I’m standing firm.
This journey has taught us that faith doesn’t mean the absence of fear. It means choosing to trust anyway. It means surrendering control, even when everything in you wants to hold on tighter. It means believing that God is present—not just in the outcomes, but in every moment in between.
Tonight, Will rests after the fight he just endured. His body has been through so much, and tomorrow will be a new day—a day focused on recovery, strength, and healing. A day to take things slowly. A day to celebrate progress, no matter how small it may seem.
We know healing doesn’t happen all at once. It happens step by step, breath by breath, prayer by prayer. And we are ready to walk that road with him, holding hope close and trusting the process.
We want to say thank you—from the deepest place in our hearts—to every single person who has been praying for us. You may not be in this hospital room, but we feel you. We feel the prayers. We feel the love. We feel the strength you’ve helped carry us through one of the hardest days yet.
You are our prayer warriors, and we cannot do this without you.
Tonight, Will is in God’s hands. And there is no safer place for him to be. 💛
