holy ground

As many of you already know, on Thursday, September 25th, our life changed forever when our dear 2-year-old daughter, EvanMarie, was diagnosed with high-risk neuroblastoma, an aggressive solid-mass cancer that is most common in infants and toddlers.

It was a painful shock, a horrific blow to our family. I had some choice words with God that night.

However, from that first quick drive home from the ER to grab clothes and essentials for Cana and EvanMarie, I realized that not too many people get to experience a challenge like this in their lifetime.

I could feel it in my bones: this was holy ground. Not because it was beautiful or peaceful or easy, but because it was sacred, a moment set apart for something unseen, something God was doing beyond my understanding. He is near.

It sounds strange, but many of the people who know us best have said something like, “If anyone can do this, it’s y’all,” or “It couldn’t have happened to a better family.”

I know what they mean. They knew we would double down in faith, in the promise of Christ, and double down in hope in the One who loves her even more than we do.

They knew Hickmans rarely back down.
And God knew that too. (Is this the way He treats His friends, Teresa of Avila?)

Through the years, I’ve watched people stand up to great trials like this, pray fervently, and somehow, even in the face of loss, still say, “Everything’s going to be okay. God’s got this.”

I used to wonder how they could say that. Now I know. It wasn’t denial. It was total surrender.

It was trust that God’s goodness doesn’t vanish when the world caves in. They knew He is near to the brokenhearted, and that His will is still the best outcome, no matter what.

We are humbled and honored to be invited into that circle now.
We didn’t ask to be in it. But here we are.

And Cana and I want to steward this moment well—to the glory of God and to the benefit of our family and neighbors. 

That might sound dramatic, zealous or overly pious to some, but for me, it’s the task at hand. The cross that’s been placed on our shoulders is very, very heavy, but it’s not meaningless. We are in! 

Every day brings a choice: to fight with faith instead of fear, to believe that God is still writing a beautiful story with all of our lives.

But it’s hard. Really hard.
Just because we have faith and hope here doesn’t make watching my baby suffer any easier.
This sucks. Cancer sucks.

Thank God, though, our family is closer than ever. Our friends and loved ones are closer than ever. It was like my larger-than-average family and community immediately sprang into action and collectively said, “Not today, Satan.”

When everything is stripped away, you see what really matters—presence, prayer, and people who simply show up.

Not everybody gets to experience this kind of struggle, and not everybody gets to experience this kind of generosity. The hand of God has been so present, in the details, in the daily mercies.

For the last three weeks, the nearness of God has shown up in meals dropped off, in late-night texts, in donations, in the quiet compassion of doctors and nurses, and in the unexpected tenderness of strangers.

Every second of every day feels like a small miracle, evidence that we’re not alone, that grace keeps finding us.

That’s how I know God is near.
Emmanuel. He is with us.

The Church, the Body of Christ, is alive and active in our lives like never before.

It’s not abstract or theological; it’s pulled pork, prayer chains, and hugs in hospital hallways. It’s the love of God made visible and tangible.

Beautiful flowers are blooming in a difficult valley.

What’s strange is that we’re used to being on the other side of this story. We’ve given talks for decades about hope and trust and faith. We’ve sat with families in great pain. We’ve been the encouragers—the ones who show up.

But now… we’re that family in need. I’m that dad.
We’re those people.

And it’s humbling.

There’s a strange grace in being carried. It strips away pride, illusion, and control, and leaves you standing before the Father, desperate, but still trusting:

“Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof,
but only say the word, and my daughter will be healed.”

God is near to the brokenhearted.

When our family feels the nearness of our community, we feel the nearness of God.

Friends (you know who you are), your radical generosity, your gift of self, has been the tangible, physical, visible face of God to us. The love of Christ is evident in our life through you.

It’s a miracle. God is so good.

We’re thankful for today, this moment, this challenge, this grace. 
For EvanMarie.
For the gift of community.
For light that darkness cannot overcome.

EvanMarie can’t walk right now, but boy can she talk, she’s still her spunky self, curious, playful, full of opinions and judgement. We’re soaking up every moment her laughter, her stubbornness, her light.

Many of you miss her, because she’s been a light everywhere she’s gone.
She’s still that light for us.

And one day soon, we hope she’ll be out there again, shining that same light on you and reminding all of us of what’s true:

That God is love.
That He is with us.
That even here (especially here) glory belongs to Him.

Glory to God. Glory to God in all things.

Please continue to pray for EvanMarie’s healing, and for our family’s strength and surrender. Your prayers are carrying us. Thank you. 

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