There was a day, one I’ll never forget, when walking through my own front door felt like stepping into a miracle.
We had just returned home briefly between hospital stays. My son Wyatt’s body was exhausted from chemotherapy, my own heart was stretched thin, and every hour inside the oncology unit had felt heavy. The quiet hum of machines, the fluorescent lights, the interruptions through the night, those details had become our “new normal.” So when we finally made the drive home, unlocked the door, and stepped into the familiar light of our living room, something inside me shifted.
Suddenly, everything ordinary felt holy.










