As Thanksgiving approaches, our hearts are overflowing with gratitude. EvanMarie is home until the first week of December! After crushing cycle three of chemotherapy, she’s earned a little time to rest, play, and just be a kid. Her jungle-themed hospital room, with Gerald the giraffe, was the talk of the entire floor! Every nurse, doctor, and visitor commented, and it brought so much joy to what could have been a heavy week.

Now she’s back at Braes Meadow until December 3rd, when we’ll head back in for her fourth cycle of chemo. For now, she’s soaking up the goodness of her own bed, her siblings, her friend Ollie, and the warmth of our nightly dinner and prayer, all the simple, beautiful things that we have so often taken for granted in the past.

Her nausea has been tough this round, as the doctors predicted, so we ask for your continued prayers that she can hold down food and water and regain her strength in the coming days. Even through the intense chemo and all the nausea that follows, she still keeps us laughing, and keeps showing us what courage looks like. 

She is our favorite superhero now and bravery is her superpower. We are so thankful for this time at home, for the love that surrounds us, and for YOU, our community. 

​Glory to God in all things, for the struggle, for healing, for laughter, and for every moment of grace along the way.

After four sweet nights in her own bed, surrounded by siblings, friends, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and our nightly family dinners around the table, “the good ol’ days”, EvanMarie is feeling pretty great! Her fever lasted only about 48 hours and all blood and urine tests came back negative for anything harmful or life-threatening. The cause remains inconclusive, but we are simply grateful. Glory to God in all things, it didn’t slow down her treatment plan.

Today, she will nervously head back to the hospital for cycle three of chemotherapy, which will keep us there for 3 nights. We’ve decided to make her room into a jungle paradise, inspired by one of her favorite books, Giraffes Can’t Dance. It will have insects, birds, a lion, and yes — an EvanMarie-sized giraffe to dance with! 

Friends, please pray for her comfort and peace during this phase of treatment, which we’ve been told can be especially tough with nausea and fatigue. Pray also for our family’s strength, unity, and surrender as we truck along this rough road.

​Blessed Stanley Rother, you who faithfully loved and advocated for your people in very difficult circumstances, advocate for us now in ours. Padre Apla's, pray for us.

​There’s a scene in CS Lewis’, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader that’s been living rent-free in my brain for about a week now.
Eustace Clarence Scrubb, spoiled, self-pitying, allergic to grace, sneaks away from his companions to sulk and wanders into a valley that gets narrower and narrower. At once, he realizes that he can’t go back the way he came and must go forward. But the farther he goes, the tighter the valley becomes. Until, finally, he’s stuck there. It’s here, in that tight and lonely place, that he meets a dying dragon, and by nightfall he becomes one himself.

It’s a hard scene to shake, terrifying: a boy swallowed by the very thing he feared. But it’s also where mercy begins. It’s in that frightening place, that place of utter desolation that Aslan comes. When the Lion eventually shows up, he doesn’t scold or lecture. He tears. He cuts deep. He painfully pulls the scales away again and again until Eustace stands fully human, raw, aching, but free.

I’ve thought about that narrow valley in relation to our current predicament a lot. 
Ours looks very different. It’s hospital hallways and sleepless nights and the strange peace that comes when you’ve had a hard cry. Cana and I didn’t wander here out of pride; we were brought here, abruptly and firmly, by Love Himself. And yet the work feels similar, the undoing, the unmaking, the “un-dragoning.”

I’ve always been a doer. A builder. A planner. A salesman. My whole adult life has been about forward motion; working, leading, advocating, trying to make good things happen for all of God’s people and for His glory. I’ve prayed hard for the virtues to be a godly husband and father and missionary. I’m a neurotic perfectionist. I want to do things efficiently and excellently. I’m addicted to motion, to the plan, to order. 

But this valley doesn’t care how good my plan is. This valley has given me no choice but to surrender all that. Here, there’s no strategy to win, no amount of charisma or leadership or grit that can make cancer disappear. The valley has stripped me down to something smaller and truer, a 46 year old man learning to trust, not because I’ve figured out the formula or read the book, but because I’ve run out of options.

I don’t know what God has in mind here. I don’t know how this story ends.
But I do know Him.
And I know that He is good, and that His goodness isn’t dependent on the outcomes.
He’s un-dragoning us. It’s painful, but I know it’s for our benefit.

In this valley, He is growing something in our family, in me, that could not have grown in the sunshine of easy days or on the mountaintop.
He is growing faith in me that’s less about outcomes and more about presence.
Less about answers and more about surrender.
Less about doing and fixing, and more about trusting that He’s still at work, even when everything feels broken.

The valley is where my illusions go to die: my illusion of control, of strength, of being “useful” to God. The valley is where I finally stop performing and start abiding.
And it hurts. 
But this pain, this pruning, is producing something I really didn’t even know I lacked: utter dependence on God.

Flowers have a hard time growing on mountaintops. There’s too much wind up there. The soil is too thin. The beauty’s in the view, not the flora.
The valley, though, the low, damp, hard places, that’s where the roots take hold. That’s where the ground is rich enough to sustain new life.
And that’s where God has us now: learning how to bloom where it hurts.

This valley is very narrow. But God keeps planting flowers in it.
Today we are back home for a few days, enjoying a beautiful fall day in the front yard. EvanMarie’s smile and energy reminds us of the great blessing of life and love and family. Later on today our neighbors will gather and there will be laughter, then some kind friend will show up with a delicious meal. We will pray as a family and love each other well. These are the blossoms that only grow down here, in the soil of surrender. 

And maybe that’s the mercy of the valley, that when all our plans collapse, love remains. Down here, among the shadows, God is still planting something tender, unseen, and eternal. We don’t see it clearly yet, but we trust that when the sun comes out again, the garden will tell His story.

For now, we’ll stay low, let the roots go deep, and keep our eyes peeled for flowers and the One who holds the watering can.

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me."

Thank you all for your continued prayers for EvanMarie. 

Thank God we are back home now until Friday, when we have to return for a procedure that was originally planned for today. The doctors have assured us that even with this slight hiccup, we are still on track for the third cycle of Chemotherapy later this month. 

Please pray that this time at home can be restful, full of joy, and "normal". If we are feeling good, maybe we will even stop by school to say hello to her classmates. 

Early this morning, EvanMarie spiked a fever, and we had to rush her to the ER. The team drew blood and is testing for infection. It’s been a scary and heartbreaking morning. She keeps asking to go home, and we weren’t expecting to be admitted again until Tuesday. It’s looking like we’ll be here for a while.

The timing made it even harder, coming right after such a wonderful Halloween evening spent with friends and family. EvanMarie was a kitty cat, all smiles, laughing, playing, and soaking in that sweet sense of normalcy. To go from that warmth and joy back to the cold, sterile, fluorescent light of the hospital is a jarring reminder of how quickly life can shift. Reminiscent of the life-shocking night of September 25th. 

Still, we hold onto hope and the nearness of God, trusting He’s with us here, too. Please continue to pray for quick healing, peace, and strength for our brave little girl, and for grace to face each new day with courage.