I sit here in the quiet of an early Saturday morning, feeling the weight of a silence that suddenly feels too heavy, too sharp, too full of the kind of news no heart ever wants to carry.

Because this morning, the news is not good.

Not the kind of news that softens a weekend, or lifts a weary soul, or reminds us that life is gentle.

No—this is the kind of news that pulls the breath from a room, that settles deep in the bones, that makes even the strongest among us pause, close our eyes, and whisper a prayer we hope God hears before it leaves our lips.

It is news about people we love.

People we have prayed for.

People whose strength has inspired an entire community.

It is news about a boy named Will Roberts from Ralph, Alabama.

A boy who has already lived through storms grown men would tremble beneath.

A boy who, at just fourteen years old, has fought bone cancer with a warrior’s heart, a hunter’s grit, and a spirit that refuses to bow.

A boy whose fight has become a symbol of hope for everyone who knows him—even now, when hope feels fragile enough to break.

Just weeks ago, Will had cancerous tumors removed from his pelvis and femur at MD Anderson in Houston.

Surgeries that no child should endure, and yet he faced them the way he has faced everything: with stubborn courage, quiet faith, and a resilience that seems far too great for such a young frame.

But yesterday, everything changed again.

And the change was not the one any of us prayed for.

It was his mother, Brittney, whose words broke through the noise of the world, posted gently but devastatingly on Facebook—a message no mother should ever have to write, yet one written with the raw, trembling strength of a woman desperately holding onto faith:

“Will’s cancer has spread everywhere.It’s in his jaw, it’s in his sternum, it’s in his lymph nodes.

It’s in 2 spots in his liver, it’s in his leg bone, it’s in his arm bones, it’s in his lungs.

We’ll sit and wait until Monday when we see if there’s even an option.”

And then came the sentence that shattered every heart reading:

“The truth is this might be our last Christmas.

”

There is a kind of pain that does not translate into language, a kind of ache that sits beyond description, and Brittney’s words lived in that place—raw, trembling, honest, and unbearably human.

Yet, even in the middle of such fear, she clung to something unshakeable:

“I refuse to let the Devil get me.God is not done with Will yet.

The Devil will not steal my joy this Christmas.

I don’t know what our future holds, but I know our God is bigger.”

Bigger than scans.

Bigger than shadows.

Bigger than the kind of fear that presses into a parent’s chest like an impossible weight.

And then came the request that every parent in crisis eventually whispers, though they rarely say it aloud:

“Pray that Will keeps the fighter instinct in him.
Pray that he wants to drag me to another hunting stand at 5 o’clock in the morning.

Please keep us in your prayers.”

I read her words once.

Then again.

And again.

Letting each sentence settle in the places where grief meets helplessness, where faith meets desperation, where love meets the unbearable truth that sometimes, even the strongest families are brought to their knees.

So many emotions flooded my mind as I sat there—shock, sorrow, disbelief, an ache that felt too sharp for words.

Quite frankly, I found myself short on breath, short on language, short on the kind of comfort you wish you could reach through a screen and give directly to a family who needs more than anyone should ever have to ask for.

I needed time.

Time to breathe.

Time to let this settle into a heart that wanted to reject it outright.

Time to pray before I even knew which words to use.

But even through the heaviness, one truth rose above everything else:

This family is not alone.

Not now.

Not ever.

And so, for this moment, I want every person reading, every heart listening, every friend, every stranger, every soul who has ever believed in the power of prayer to take a breath and join together.

Let us lift up Will—this brave, resilient, extraordinary 14-year-old boy who has taught all of us the meaning of courage.

Let us lift up his parents, Jason and Brittney, who have held him through every storm, who have fought beside him with love louder than fear.

Let us lift up his sister, Charlie, whose young heart carries a kind of worry no child should bear, yet who stands with her brother with a loyalty deeper than words.

Let us lift up this entire family as they step into days filled with uncertainty, fear, and yet, even now, unwavering faith.

Because what they need most right now—more than explanations, more than answers, more than anything—is prayer.

Prayer from the quiet corners of kitchens.

Prayer from hospital waiting rooms.

Prayer whispered in cars at stoplights.

Prayer lifted by strangers who may never meet Will but feel the tug of his story deep in their chest.

Prayer from everyone who reads this and feels even for a moment that they want to help but don’t know how.

This is how.

This is where it begins.

With a prayer.

With thousands of them.

With a community choosing to believe that even when the road looks impossible, miracles still rise in the places we least expect.

So today, I ask you—every single one of you—to pause, to breathe, to bow your head for just a moment, and send a prayer toward Will Roberts.

A prayer for strength.

A prayer for peace.

A prayer for another sunrise, and another hunt, and another Christmas filled with joy instead of fear.

A prayer that God hears the trembling in Brittney’s words and wraps His arms around this family with a gentleness stronger than any diagnosis.

For now, that is all we can do.

But it is not small.

It is not powerless.

And it is not unnoticed.

Let’s surround Will, Jason, Brittney, and Charlie with a wall of prayer so strong no darkness can break through it.

Let’s hold them up until they can breathe again.

Let’s remind them that an entire community stands with them—today, tomorrow, and for every step of this fight.

Please—send a prayer Will’s way.

A few years ago, I found my daughter—though not in the way one might think. She wasn’t born to me, nor did I ever expect to call her my own. She was a stray, wandering the streets, lost and alone. Her fur was matted, her body thin, and her eyes wide with uncertainty, the kind of eyes that spoke of too many nights spent outside, too many days without a kind word or a loving touch. I didn’t think twice when I saw her. My heart went out to her instantly. I couldn’t leave her there, abandoned, so I took her in, and that was the moment everything changed.

Since then, she’s been my constant companion. My daughter, in every sense of the word, has brought so much joy into my life. Her love, loyalty, and playful spirit have made our house a home. Even now, as she’s grown into the beautiful, confident dog she is, she still carries a hint of that initial vulnerability she had when I first found her. That quiet grace, always watching and waiting for someone to love her. I couldn’t imagine life without her.

Then one day, everything changed again.

I found a little puppy—scared, trembling, and all alone, much like my daughter once was. I couldn’t leave her there either. She was so tiny, so fragile, and the fear in her eyes broke my heart. I scooped her up gently, wrapping her in a blanket of safety, and brought her home. My daughter, now older and wiser, watched with curiosity as I placed the new pup down on the floor.

What happened next was something I didn’t expect. My daughter, who had always been so independent, immediately took on the role of a protector. She wasn’t just curious about this little one; she became her guardian, her mother. It was as if something inside her knew exactly what this little one needed: love, warmth, and protection. She watched over the puppy constantly, lying beside her, nuzzling her with affection, and standing guard whenever anyone got too close. It was a bond formed without words, a bond that was as natural as breathing.

The puppy, still unsure of her new world, found comfort in my daughter’s presence. Every time she whimpered, my daughter would nudge her gently, her soft eyes full of reassurance. It was like watching a mother soothe her child, and I couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride. This wasn’t just a rescue story—it was a story of family. A family built on compassion, on second chances, and on love that knows no boundaries.

I couldn’t resist capturing the moment. There they were, the two of them—one big, one small, but both bound by an unspoken understanding. My daughter, the older, wiser one, curled up next to the puppy, her head resting protectively on her little sibling. The puppy, still so unsure but finding solace in the warmth of my daughter’s embrace, was finally able to rest. The picture was a simple one, but to me, it was everything. It was the embodiment of what family really means—a family not bound by blood, but by the love that grows when we choose to care for one another.

I knew in that moment that this was where they both belonged: together, under the same roof, wrapped in love and safety. I couldn’t help but think of how much my daughter had grown since I first rescued her from the streets. She had become not just my loyal companion but a protector in her own right. And now, she had the chance to be that same protector for another soul in need.

This was their story, and it was beautiful. The bond they shared, the protection my daughter offered, and the quiet, loving moments they spent together were a testament to the power of rescue, of second chances, and of the love that can flourish in the most unexpected of places.

As I watched them, I knew my little family was complete. We were all home—together. And no matter what, I would always make sure that no one in this family would ever feel alone again.