​Many of you have asked where exactly we are in EvanMarie’s treatment, so we thought a brief roadmap might be helpful.

Since her diagnosis of high-risk neuroblastoma last fall, EvanMarie has endured a total of six rounds of chemotherapy, countless labs and clinic visits, multiple CT scans, MRIs, MIBG scans, biopsies, blood transfusions, major surgery to remove her primary tumor, stem cell collection, and two autologous bone marrow transplants. For someone who still loves sparkles, unicorn princesses, and the crust cut off of her toast, it’s quite the résumé.

By the grace of God, we are currently home and enjoying a much-needed season of recovery as a family.

Looking ahead, the next steps in her treatment are:

June 23 – July 9: Proton radiation therapy with the MD Anderson Beam Team. Daily outpatient appointments. 

Week of July 20: Disease assessment scans to evaluate her response to treatment

August – December: Five months of immunotherapy back at Texas Children’s Hospital. 6 days of inpatient per month. 

As you can see, we still have plenty of road ahead of us. But we also have every reason to hope. The treatment has been working! The doctors remain encouraged, and our prayer is that by the time Christmas arrives, EvanMarie will be celebrating not only her fourth birthday, no only the birth of Christ, but also a clean bill of health and a body free of cancer.

One thing this journey has taught us is not to get too far ahead of ourselves. So for now, we are focused on the next right step, the next treatment, the next day, and the Daily Bread God provides for our family. 

Thank you for walking this road with us. Your prayers, encouragement, meals, messages, and acts of kindness have carried us this far.

We remain hopeful in her healing. We remain grateful for the daily miracles. And above all, we remain confident that God is with us and that He is good.

Glory to God in all things.

​I’ve discovered something about myself these past few months.
I am not at all satisfied with daily bread.

I want enough bread to last us at least a week. Daily bread? What is that? As a father, it almost seems irresponsible to only buy bread for one day. We need bread to last at least a few days or a week.
And when it comes to grace and provision, I want it Costco-sized, in order to last for way longer. Like a 100-pound bag of white rice stacked neatly in the garage, I want enough grace to cover my family for the next six months. I want the assurance that we're going to make it through it all.

Though the doctors are confident that the cancer is all but annihilated in EvanMarie’s body, we still have a long, long road ahead of us. Throughout the next six months we've got radiation at MD Anderson, another series of scans soon after, immunotherapy cycles, countless appointments and labs (lots of Braeswood drives), sleepless nights, and of course the "whatever else" that might go sideways, which, if you've ever met us, isn't exactly out of the question.

Honestly, at this point, I feel like I could use a second pantry.
Maybe a little barn out back.

The problem is that God has never seemed interested in giving His followers months of certainty.

I want the whole loaf. God keeps giving me a single slice. Enough for today.

The Israelites must have really hated manna. At least some days.
No barns. No stockpiles. Every morning they had to wake up and trust God again. Just enough for one day.

I used to read that story and think, How beautiful. He fed them every day. Now I read it and think, How frustrating. Because I still want tomorrow's bread today. And the next day’s as well if possible. 
I want guarantees. 
I want a roadmap.
Instead, God keeps handing me a day's portion and saying, "Trust Me."

And somehow, it keeps being enough.
Not the guarantee I’m after. Just enough.

The future still terrifies us.
But the present keeps convincing us that we're going to be okay.

That's the part I never expected.

When EvanMarie was diagnosed with cancer, I assumed joy would disappear for a while. I imagined our family entering some gray waiting room where nobody was allowed to laugh until the danger passed. But that's not what happened at all. The Hickmans kept being Hickmans. We still gather around the table. We still make each other laugh.

There is still the Holy Mass.
There is still our backyard garden.
There is still family.

And our girl, she keeps shining in some of the darkest places. She's recruited nurses and other kids on the hospital floor into foot races, bike races, and endless rounds of The Floor Is Lava. Back home now in the cul-de-sac, she is living her best life with her siblings and best friends. Laughing, being silly, and bringing joy wherever she goes. 

Life keeps showing up for us.
Not a perfect life.
Not an easy life.
But a good life. 
A life worth living. 

Jesus tells us to look at the birds of the air. They neither sow nor reap, yet the Father feeds them. He tells us to consider the flowers of the field. They don't strive or worry, yet God clothes them in beauty. For most of my life, I've admired those verses. Lately, I've had to relearn what they mean. 

Hope isn't the assurance that everything will work out exactly the way we want.
Hope is confidence that God is good. And He will remain good. 

Tomorrow will have enough trouble of its own. Jesus told us that too. 

So today, I’m trying to receive today's daily bread. Today's grace. Today's Eucharist. And so far, somehow, miraculously, it's been enough.
We are just going to keep following and trusting the One who is feeding us.

Psalm 104 paints a picture of a God who continually provides, making grass grow, bringing forth food from the earth, sustaining every living thing He has made. Not all at once. Not for years in advance. But day after day, season after season, with a faithfulness that often goes unnoticed until we need it.

Maybe that's the lesson I'm learning. Daily bread isn't a lesser gift than a storehouse of certainty. It's a deeper invitation to trust the God who keeps providing it.

"Bless the LORD, my soul; LORD, my God, you are great indeed! You make the grass grow for the cattle and plants for people's work, to bring forth food from the earth, wine to gladden their hearts, oil to make their faces shine, and bread to sustain their human hearts."
— Psalm 104

Thank you to those of you, our beloved friends and family, who have sustained us daily, through your kind and loving support and prayers.

Glory to God in all things.

​We are home.
Glory to God.
It’s an understatement to say that these past few months, especially these last weeks of bone marrow transplant, have been some of the most difficult moments of our lives. And yet through all the pain and grief, we know we have never been alone. God has been present to us in new and miraculous ways. Your prayers, meals, messages, generosity, holy hours, tears, and encouragement have meant more to us than we could ever explain. We truly believe that the love of God has become tangible to us through our people. Thank you.

EvanMarie still has a long road ahead. For the next few weeks, she will continue IV nutrition for 12 hours each day and will return often to the hospital for labs and blood transfusions. Radiation begins around the first week of June. But honestly, we are not thinking too far ahead right now.

Right now, we are simply grateful.
Grateful to be together at home. Grateful to hear her laugh again. Grateful to watch her light return more each day.

This weekend she even got to attend her big brother Dom’s college graduation, a moment that felt almost impossible not long ago.

There is still healing ahead. There are still deep valleys to walk through. But today we are resting on the mountaintop, soaked in the goodness of God and the gift of life.

Thank you for standing with us through it all. Thank you for your love. 

Glory to God in all things. He is making us all better.

​Light is finally beginning to break through! 

After a long and very difficult week in the BMT, EvanMarie’s mucositis is finally starting to clear, and her little body is once again producing white blood cells on its own. Thank God for this hard fought progress. 
Today brought another beautiful gift: the doctors gave her permission to leave Floor 8 for a bit on Mother’s Day. After weeks of isolation, pain, and long hospital days, even a small outing for her will feel extraordinary.

At this rate, we are hopeful that we may finally be headed home sometime this week! 
​
We cannot adequately express our gratitude for your prayers. We truly believe they have carried us through the darkest moments of this valley. Thank you for loving our girl, for loving our family, and for continuing to hope with us.

​Glory to God in all things.

​Well, we are back in the thick of it. 

It’s round two of the bone marrow transplant, and our princess warrior is walking a very familiar path. Almost step for step, it looks just like last time. She’s no longer eating, and the sores in her mouth and throughout her GI tract are back, bringing with them intense, relentless pain. It’s so hard to watch.

There’s really no way to soften that part. No medicine, no relief. Sitting beside your child while they hurt like this… it does something to you. There are moments where all you can do is stay close, cuddle her little body, and whisper comfort while wishing with everything in you that you could just take it away.

And as much it is feels and looks like last BMT, there is something different this time.

We’ve been here before. We know this deep valley.

And even more than that, we know what’s on the other side of it all. We’ve watched her come back to herself, her smile returning, her laughter filling the room, her playful spirit shining through again.

And even now, in the middle of the hardest days, the light is still there. 

The light of Christ in her.
The light of hope, a hope that does not disappoint.
It flickers at times, but it has not gone out.

Her bravery, her quiet strength in the midst of so much suffering… it is deeply inspiring to both me and Ennie. She is showing us what it looks like to continue carrying light into the dark places.

These days still feel very long. The suffering is not small. But there is a quiet endurance running underneath it all, a steady reminder that this is not the end of her story. We are going to make it. 

God is truly here.
He has carried us through a lot.
And He is with us now.
But… it’s still very hard.

We need your prayers friends. We need your support. And we are so deeply grateful for the many ways you continue to show us that you are with us.

If you’re wondering how to pray for her today, please pray for:

Relief from pain, especially from the mucositis in her mouth and GI tract.
Strength and endurance for her little body. 
Peace, deep, steady peace for EvanMarie and for all of us.

The other day, I came across a video of EvanMarie taken just two days before her diagnosis. At the time, we knew she wasn’t feeling well, but we had no idea what was ahead for us. And there she was, sweet and steady, singing:

“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine…” 

Yes, baby girl. You are letting it shine. Even here, you are shining for all to see. We are so proud to be your parents. 

Thank you dear friends for holding us in prayer. We cherish you. 

Glory to God in all things!

​Today we walk back in to the hospital for EvanMarie’s second bone marrow transplant and another month long stay. Ugh.
Please pray for strength.

Different from last time, we now know very well the road that lies ahead: the long days of chemotherapy, the quiet calm of transplant day, the difficult stretch of pain management through the third week, and the slow rebuilding and recovery that follows.

We also know that there is “the good life” on the other side of it all. Throughout the past four weeks at home, we’ve seen her come all the way back. Her belly laugh, her energy, her personality in full force. That one truth is carrying us as we walk back through these doors.

Friends, there’s no way around it, this is going to be hard. Watching a child endure this kind of thing never gets easier. But we step forward with a deeper trust than ever, one that has been forged in the fire these last seven months.

We trust because God has remained faithful to us. And present. There have been miracles! and we know he will do it again! 
As always we are incredibly grateful for the care at Texas Children’s Hospital. The people here really love our girl well, and that gives us peace as we begin again.

And as we enter this difficult next stretch, we also need you again. 

Please continue to pray intentionally for EvanMarie, for protection over her body, for relief from the pain, and for endurance through the hardest days. If you are able, consider setting aside time this week for a holy hour, a quiet moment, to bring her before the Lord and beg for complete healing. We entrust her in a special way to the intercession of Blessed Stanley Rother and the Holy Family.

Jesus, we trust in You.
Jesus, we surrender. Take care of everything. 

And we also want to make a very real, very practical ask.

As Cana and I spend long stretches at the hospital, the weight at home shifts heavily onto our children. They have been incredible, selfless, generous, and brave. But this is a lot for them.

If you are able, we humbly ask for support that helps care for them: meals, check-ins, rides, time, presence, anything that eases the burden and reminds them they are not alone. 

And because EvanMarie is still EvanMarie, if you want to make her smile, paint your nails pink and consider sending a video of encouragement (the funnier the better)!

Today, we check in on floor 8 with full hearts. Grateful. Surrendered and hopeful.

We are confident that whatever comes, we are not walking this alone. We are so very grateful for you, our community. 

Glory to God in all things.

Today was Good Friday.

A day set aside for quiet reflection, for standing at the foot of the Cross, for remembering that suffering is real and that God’s love is made manifest in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus.

And for our family, this isn’t just something we reflect on abstractly this year. Just a few short weeks ago, we felt like we were living it all in real time. 

The pain.
The sorrow.
The complete lack of control.
God’s presence. 

The BMT was horrific. No child should have to endure what EvanMarie endured in those gruesome chemo side effects. But it’s her best shot at healing. 
No mother or father should have to witness their child in so much pain. It really really sucked. And yet… this suck, this cross, might be my best shot at healing. 

Our wholeness must include the cross. 

And yet, today… I woke up feeling not wanting to wait until Sunday to celebrate the resurrection. Today is different than that Calvary of the 8th floor. Today, we are at home in the front yard. Today I’m watching EvanMarie giggle and twirl in her pink sparkly dress, laughing as she shows me how fast she can run and how proud she was when she got up on her scooter. 

Today, her personality, her spunk, her humor, her wonderfully opinionated and judgy self has fully returned.

We are back baby!

And this… this feels like resurrection.

Not fully. Not completely. Not finished.

But real and true. And worthy of a party. 

I’ve reflected before that flowers don’t always grow on the mountaintops, they grow down in the valley. And that last stint at Texas Children’s was a deep, deep valley. But now we are seeing those flowers.

Small, beautiful, wild! Signs of life pushing green and yellow and blue and purple, through the fertile soil of all of this suffering.

And to be honest, part of me wants to hesitate with this sensation of consolation today. 

There’s a voice that says: Wait. It’s only Good Friday. Stay here. Don’t move too quickly to the joy.

It’s wicked that I would think that somehow, celebrating today would be doing Holy Week all wrong. Agh! Scrupulous much?

Bleh. Not this year. 

Because through this difficult experience, I’ve been reminded again, the Paschal Mystery is not something we visit once a year. It’s already here. It’s now. And it’s not yet. 

It is something we can live everyday and long for its completion in us. 

The Cross and the Resurrection are not separate moments on a liturgical calendar, they are happening together, right now, Sacramentally present at the altar and in our wild and ordinary lives.

Suffering and joy.
Death and life.
Tears and laughter.

All in the same day. Sometimes in the same hour.

So if today we laugh…
if today we celebrate…
if today I even hide a few Easter eggs for our sweet baby daughter…

it is not a rejection of the Cross at all.

It is a recognition that resurrection has already begun.

God is not bound by time.

He was.
He is.
And He is to come.

And so this Good Friday, we remain at the Cross. But, we also dare to notice the beautiful wild flowers growing in this valley.

Love is here.
Joy is here.
God is here.

Jesus, we trust in You.
Jesus, we surrender ourselves to You.
Take care of everything.

Cheers and Happy Easter everyone! 

PS: This video says it all. This is our girl running through the skybridges of TCH in between her 9 (!) appointments on Tuesday. She is the most adorable and brightest light in this place. A living witness to true Easter joy.

​Team EvanMarie, we have wonderful news: she is coming home today!

After being admitted way back on February 19 for a bone marrow transplant, EvanMarie has crossed all the benchmarks the doctors were hoping to see in her engraftment and recovery, and they have given us the green light to leave the hospital. It has been nearly a month on floor 8, perhaps the hardest month our family has ever endured, but God has brought us through it all.

Thank you for the continued prayers! Home will not be without its challenges. EvanMarie’s body is still very weak, and we will need time to readjust to life all together again, as she continues to heal. But home is where she belongs. Home is the best place for her recovery.

This past month has stretched us in ways we never imagined. And yet, through every long night and difficult day, we have felt the presence of God and our community. We come out of this season stronger, more grateful, and more dependent on God than ever before.

As we enter these final weeks of Lent, we give all glory to the One who sacrificed everything for our sake. In our own small way we take up the crosses entrusted to us, striving to follow the Father in obedience and to unite our sufferings with the suffering Body of Christ. 

Thank you for walking this road with us. This milestone feels like a huge step in her total healing. Glory to God in all things.

​EvanMarie had a good day yesterday and today. Thank God, she’s starting to feel more like herself again, playing games, joking, and being opinionated about everything, especially her parents’ recommendations. After some heavy negotiating (and a few bribes) yesterday, she finally brushed her teeth, which felt like a huge win. She’s also eating a little bit of yogurt and drinking water now.

If you were wondering, EvanMarie’s strong will is alive and well, y’all, and right now that old stubbornness of hers is working in her favor.

We also have some encouraging medical news. Her stem cells have officially engrafted, which means her bone marrow transplant is complete. Her ANC (the measure of her white blood cells) has now been above 1500 for two days in a row, a major milestone that shows her new immune system is beginning to do its work. This means we will be talking about discharge soon. 

These past three weeks have been incredibly difficult, and we want to take a moment to give big props to her incredible siblings: Madeline, Dominic, Sophia, Avila, Lucia, Quinn, Zelie, and Oliver.

Some kids spend their spring break at the beach or on a mission trip somewhere far away. Ours decided to mission right here at home, taking care of one another, especially their five-year-old brother, and keeping the household moving along while Cana and I spend long days and nights at the hospital.

Their selflessness, teamwork, and love for their little sister have made it possible for us to be here with EvanMarie, guiding her through this difficult stretch. We are incredibly proud of our children, and deeply grateful to God for them.

Our family is very tired, but full of hope. 

And we are so thankful for the prayers and support that continue to carry us along this long hard road.

​Praise God, EvanMarie is beginning to feel better as engraftment has started. After some very difficult days, it is a gift to see her talking, joking, and playing again. She still isn’t eating, but she is drinking water, which is an encouraging step forward.

We are closely watching her ANC, the measure of her white blood cell count. Today it is 1220, up from 310 yesterday and 110 the day before. Once it remains above 1500 for several days, the doctors will begin weaning her from IV medications and start watching how she does with eating and drinking. After that, we will begin talking about a possible discharge date.

After nearly three weeks on Floor 8, the days have blurred together. It has been exhausting and, at times, very hard to watch her suffer. But today we are simply grateful to see real progress.

Thank you for your continued prayers. God hears our cries.