The Eleventh Hour: Grief, Faith, and the God Who Shows Up

The Week That Wiped Me Out

I don’t even know where to begin. The past week has wiped me out, and if I’m honest, I don’t know if I’m okay. This past year has been brutal. The past week? Downright scary and unsettling.

As school started and hockey season kicked off, we tried to juggle all the moving parts while still managing Logan’s medical complexities. For weeks we’ve been teetering on the edge of another hospital admission, doing everything we can to keep him “stable.” And by stable, I mean it feels like the fragile work of keeping a plant alive with just enough water and food.

Boston is just over the horizon - so close I can feel it, yet not guaranteed. Every day I wait for the single case agreement to be signed off. Endless phone calls, pleading in desperation, knowing his life - and our life - hinges on this assessment.

Coming off emotionally charged weeks, his body was fragile. A full week of appointments loomed ahead, with the weight of uncertainty pressing down.

Fighting on Every Front

By Thursday I was restless, frustrated, and overwhelmed. I was fighting for Logan’s education against administrators who don’t seem to care. A district praised as “glamorous” but in truth fails children through lack of professionalism and follow-through. A district that refuses to see the harm they’ve caused my child. A district that doesn’t stand on integrity.

The decision of whether to pull him completely from school weighed heavy - but one we can’t make until we know more from Boston.

Meanwhile, insurance battles raged on. “We’re working on it,” with just days left before Logan’s 5-hour evaluation on Tuesday, September 16th. Each call felt heavier. “We’re working on it” wasn’t enough anymore. I was tired of healthcare not doing their job in a timely manner. His life was dangling between stability and another admission. I was angry - angry that flights and accommodations had doubled, options dwindling by the hour.

At 4:15 p.m. on Thursday, I was told to prepare for his appointment to be cancelled. Despite being told by insurance the night before that the single case agreement had been signed and sent to Boston, Boston said otherwise and told me: “Don’t book anything yet.” We were supposed to leave Monday for an 8 a.m. Tuesday appointment - with just one business day left to make it happen. Otherwise, we’d be pushed to November 11th - two months away. I cried. I was angry at how unfair it all felt. The thought of spending the holiday season in Boston, separated until school break, felt unbearable.

The Eleventh Hour

Just after 6 p.m., my phone rang. It was Karina - my main contact at Boston Children’s. She had already clocked out for the night, but she didn’t hesitate to call.

Logan’s case had been escalated all the way to the director level at insurance. Her higher ups had asked her to call me as I answered I heard her say “my friend, I have good news!” She told me: “You have the green light to come to Boston on Monday.” 

She knew how important this appointment was - not just for Logan, but for our whole family - and how deeply frustrated I was. There weren’t enough words to thank her and her leadership team for making things happen. I cried again - this time in relief. God came through in the eleventh hour (Matthew 20:6). When I told Logan, he cried too.

A Cry for Refuge

That night, after Jax was asleep and Andrew was at hockey with Addie, the quiet of my room feeling unsettled and unsure why. I grabbed my Bible and opened to Psalm 91. I prayed through the words as tears streamed down my face. It was a raw cry - a cry I didn’t fully understand, one without clear words or reasons, but a cry I couldn’t hold back.

Psalm 91:4 has always been my favorite:

“He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; His faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.”

I sat in the dark for an hour, Bible in my lap, tears pouring.

That night, I needed protection. I needed refuge. I needed the reminder of His faithfulness when life felt too heavy.

The Breaking Point 

The next day, as we headed to CHOP for a nutrition appointment. Given his intolerance to feeds and severe abdominal pain, I assumed it would just be a formality before Boston. The ride up was uneventful—strangely so. I even thought to myself, “What day is it, and why is there no traffic?”

With a little over an hour to spare, we pulled into the parking garage. Logan had been nauseous and asked to stop his feed while we were there. Within minutes, the smell of vomit filled the car.

He froze. I gagged. He was covered - his clothes, the seat, his pump and supplies. Everything. I scrambled, pulling things from the car, throwing them on the ground, while he stripped down to his underwear and vomited in the parking garage as people drove by.

I fought back tears and gagged at the same time. We had no change of clothes. Barely enough wipes to clean the seat. I couldn’t believe this was how the day was starting - and Andrew would be leaving in just an hour to head to Boston with Addie for a hockey tournament this weekend.

Logan used my extra shirt to cover himself as best he could. The ripe smell of vomit filled the elevators as he hid in the corner.

We were sent from one person to the next, no one knowing how to help.

I burst into tears in the hallway, lost and overwhelmed.

A nurse came to our aid, bringing us to a room where he could strip down and clean off with wipes. A couple of gowns would have to suffice while unknowingly another staff member went to find scrub bottoms.

I cried again. Overwhelmed. Still restless from the days before. Anticipating the days ahead.

And that was just the beginning…

A Glimpse of Care

The appointment itself proved to be exactly what I expected, but it also set the tone for Boston and gave us a contact point moving forward - a focused specialized celiac visit. The first one in the more than five years since Logan was diagnosed with Celiac.

For the first time, we met a dietician who actually cared. Someone who understood the disease and recognized just how complex and challenging his specific case is. That alone felt like a glimmer of hope.

Still, people often seem confused when we mention Boston—even clinic staff. “CHOP is a top pediatric hospital with amazing specialists. Why would you need to go all the way to Boston?”

CHOP is strong, yes, but Boston is unmatched. They lead the country in pediatric rehabilitation. This is Logan’s best chance at getting his life back. And that is why the fight to get there has been so intense.

The Pain Waiting at Home

As we headed home, I had no idea what pain was waiting for me. Isn’t that the irony of life? You never know when your time is up. You never know what the next minute, hour, or day holds.

When we walked through the door, our 12-year-old golden doodle, Luigi, greeted us - bleeding from the top of his head. A new lesion had appeared almost out of nowhere.

As I brought him outside to trim the fur around it, I realized I also needed to take a closer look at a black matted clump of fur on his side. I had noticed it growing before, but in the chaos of life, I had ignored it - until this past week, when it became impossible to overlook.

Andrew thought earlier in the week it might just be a scab. My gut told me otherwise.

As I carefully peeled away the edges, about 75% lifted, revealing what I dreaded: an ulcerated, infected, likely necrotic cancerous wound. The remaining section was clearly painful for him. I had no idea how deep it went.

My heart raced. Logan looked at me with panic in his eyes, asking if his dog was okay. And all I could think was: Why today, God? Why now? Why when Andrew is hours away? Why when we’re already hanging by a thread? Why do I have to do this alone?  

Carrying It Alone

Logan began having a panic attack as I called Andrew to tell him what was going on. Luigi had already been losing bladder control for weeks. We had known this time was coming, but we had been trying to give him just a little more time.

He had already had an accident while we were at CHOP earlier that day. And in the 20 minutes since we had been home, he had gone multiple times.

We knew he had cancer. But for the most part, he still seemed okay - until now.

And now, of all days, it was time.

Luigi was Logan’s dog. He named him when he was 4 because Luigi was his favorite Mario character and he played it all the time on Wii. Yet, he followed me everywhere, annoyed me constantly, tripped me daily. But he was Logan’s. And Logan’s heart was about to shatter.

When I was seven years old, my dog Buckwheat died right in front of me. My dad accidentally ran him over with the car. I will never forget the look, the last breath, the blood-curdling scream I let out. That moment scarred me.

I don’t do well with pets. I keep a safe distance. I never intended to be the one to take Luigi to the vet when the time came. If the kids needed me, of course I would go - but in my heart, I had hoped Andrew would be the one to handle it.

But here I was. Alone. And it was falling on me.

The Vet

Logan clung to me, sobbing that he didn’t want Luigi to suffer. At the same time, he was angry - angry that it had come to this, angry that the past two weeks had already broken us, and now this was the final blow.

I had to pick Jax up from school first. Poor boy had no idea what he was about to walk into.

As Logan carried Luigi to the car, I bent over on the deck, having a full-blown panic attack. Why, God? WHY today? 

When Jax got in the car, I told him Luigi was sick and needed to go to the vet so he could be with Jesus. At six, he didn’t fully understand. He asked so many questions as we drove.

We stopped first to get clay to make paw prints - one for each of the kids. Jax acted out, fighting with Logan, confused and overwhelmed. My heart rate was sky high, panic coursing through me. I just kept telling myself be strong. Begging Jesus to give me strength.

At the vet, they already knew why we were there. They took us straight to the comfort room - a beautiful, thoughtful space. There were tissues everywhere, water, and even a small sign above a cabinet with Hershey’s kisses that read:

“Goodbye Kisses—because no dog should go to heaven without tasting chocolate.” 

The staff was compassionate, gentle, kind.

Jax fed Luigi endless Hershey’s kisses and didn’t hesitate to have his share too. They brought in a giant pup cup filled with whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles. I watched as he ate it slower. I knew his appetite had been changing lately and it was in that moment I could see just how much. Maybe he was savoring the whipped cream. Jax and Logan laughed as he had 2 little sprinkles stuck on his nose. Jax led us in prayer for Luigi and asking Jesus to take good care of him and heal him.

Logan had bought two Hershey bars on the way there. He broke them into pieces, sharing bite for bite with his dog. The last three squares he split - one for Jax, one for Luigi, and one for himself. He tapped them together and said, “Cheers.”

My mama heart shattered into pieces at that moment.

When Logan was ready, he flipped the switch to call the staff back in. Panic hit him again. Jax cried, understanding more now.

The doctor knelt with us on the floor, explaining simply and gently what would happen. His IV already in place as Luigi was laying on soft gray quilt, Logan right next to him. I helped Logan understand each a little more to ensure he was prepared and honestly make sure he was ok staying until the end. He said he was good and he gave the Ok.

Logan played a song he had chosen for this moment—“Happier.” When the first medication went in, Luigi laid down. Logan threw himself on top of his dog, sobbing. He sobbed so hard.

Jax watching and crying taking it all in. As his breathing changed she made sure Logan was ok to give the next medication which would start the final process.

When the second medication was given, I held Jax as we both cried, my hand resting on Logan’s back. I prayed for peace. For mercy. For comfort.

The doctor confirmed quietly with a nod to me that Luigi had passed. Tears filled her eyes as she left us alone. Logan’s gut-wrenching sobs tore through me. Jax, overwhelmed, asked if Luigi was now “all better with Jesus.”

I could only tell them both: “Yes, he isn’t in pain anymore.” 

The Aftermath

I asked Logan if he was ready after some time had passed and he had calmed a little. When Logan finally attempted to stand, he realized he had lost sensation in his legs. He collapsed in frustration and anger. Panic rushed through me. The paralysis was back - the same that had landed us in CHOP earlier this year.

I steadied him to his feet, terrified. My heart panicked running wild with all the thoughts of what do I do and what if it worsens. I can’t go to the hospital this weekend. We have a plane to catch on Monday. What about Jax? Why isn’t Andrew here? Why do I have to do this all alone. As I got Logan to his feet he fell back down and laid on his dog a little longer.

I helped him back up when he was ready and steadied him to the door. Meanwhile Jax was hysterical asking why we weren’t taking Luigi with us as he laid on the blanket on the floor. All I could say was that he had gone home with Jesus and closed the door behind us. As I helped Logan to the door Jax panicked and ran back to the room to check on him and say goodbye again.

I carried two broken boys to the car. The weight on my shoulders was crushing.

Halfway home, I told Logan how proud I was of him - for putting Luigi’s comfort above his own pain, for loving selflessly in his heartbreak.

He sobbed. I sobbed. Jax sobbed.

That night, I curled up in bed, numb and exhausted. But God wasn’t done.

God’s Timing

Unbeknownst to me, Phil Wickham was live-streaming his Song of the Saints release party that night. I turned it on and streamed it to the TV.

Jax and I sang at the top of our lungs:

“Oh God, the battle belongs to You.”
“For Jesus, there’s nothing impossible for You.”
“Glory to God who is faithful.” 

And in that moment, peace settled over me. God had gone before me. He knew what my day would hold and had already prepared a way to comfort me.

Grief and Gratitude

I didn’t want to wake up and face the day today. I wanted to just stay curled up eyes closed pretending like nothing happened. I had vomit covered seats and a truck that needed a serious deep clean. I had no idea how Logan would be today. The house was quiet without Luigi’s shadow under my feet. No one to clean up the crumbs. No one to trip over. I felt numb. He was such a good dog and this was the hardest thing I had to do for him.

Jax asked endless questions about heaven. About when we’d see Luigi again. About whether he was eating or drinking with Jesus. I tried my best to answer simply, to reassure him that Jesus was taking good care of his dog.

Later, Jax and I took a pause and went out for ice cream - just the two of us. I put my phone down, choosing to soak in the moment. Freezing a few to remember later. His sticky little smile, the way more ice cream ended up on his shirt than in his mouth - it was exactly what we both needed. A moment to pause before Boston.

Because life goes fast. And even in the middle of pain, there are still moments to be grateful for.

“Let your roots grow down into Him, and let your lives be built on Him. Then your faith will grow strong in the truth you were taught, and you will overflow with thankfulness.”
—Colossians 2:7