“She Just Wanted to Hold Her Mom’s Hand — And Cancer Tried to Take Even That”.5385
It was such a small request, wrapped in innocence, wrapped in hope, wrapped in the kind of sweetness only a child fighting for her life could still imagine so gently.
And somehow, that little sentence shattered a mother’s heart more than any prognosis ever could.
Because Brielle is still dreaming.
Still planning.
Still imagining a future her doctors no longer believe she will reach.
Every day in this house feels like a mixture of miracle and terror, stitched together by moments so fragile that her mother holds her breath through all of them.
They know how sick Brielle looks.
They see the weight she has lost, the circles under her eyes, the way her skin pales in the mornings before the day warms her again.
And yet — she is still here.
Still alert.
Still begging for movie nights.
Still talking for hours about books she wants to read.
Still waking up with excitement to search for her Elf on the Shelf, giggling as if her body were not fighting a silent war beneath her skin.
Still dreaming about birthdays.
Still dreaming about bracelets.
Still dreaming about holding her mother’s hand in a world that suddenly feels so temporary.
There is something extraordinary about the way children like Brielle dream — as if their minds refuse to acknowledge the limits placed on their bodies, as if they insist on believing in life even when adults whisper about death.
Her mother watches her and sees a spark that refuses to dim.
A spark that deserves protection.
A spark worth fighting for.
Which is why the message she received this week felt like a blow she could barely recover from.
A message from someone calling themselves an “oncologist.”
A message that said something so cruel, so cold, so void of humanity that she read it twice just to be sure she understood.
“We shouldn’t be giving her any more blood transfusions, because blood is to save someone’s life, not prolong the inevitable.”
How can anyone with a medical degree say such words?
How can anyone who has stood in rooms where families beg for more time speak so carelessly about a child whose heartbeat still fights beneath her ribs?
How can anyone reduce a little girl’s life — with her dreams and her books and her birthday wishes — into a sentence that feels like a verdict?
Her mother could not understand it.
Would not accept it.
Refused to let it sink into her bones.
Because Brielle is still here.
Still alive.
Still wanting to live.
Her red blood cells, fragile as they are, have managed to hold their ground this week.
For once, there is no need for a transfusion.
For once, the numbers — though troubling — are not enough to trigger another needle, another tube, another desperate attempt to buy time that hospice care no longer calls “necessary.”
On hospice, numbers lose their urgency.
The charts look different.
The thresholds shift.
The definition of “help” becomes vague, shadowed, painfully limited.
But none of that changes the truth echoing inside her mother’s chest:
Brielle deserves every chance.
Every week.
Every day.
Every breath.
And if one pint of blood can give her even a few more days of comfort or joy or childhood, then it is worth it.
Because she is worth it.
Because she is a child.
Because her life is not “inevitable” — it is precious.
If you are a blood donor, her mother wants you to know something that many people never stop to think about:
Your donation might go to a little girl who is fighting with every last piece of strength she has left.
Your donation might be the reason she wakes up without pain.
Your donation might give her one more night to watch a movie with her family, one more morning to find her Elf on the Shelf, one more afternoon to imagine birthday bracelets and hand-in-hand walks through a mall she may never reach.
Your donation might hold her in this world long enough for her mother to memorize the sound of her laugh just a little deeper.
Long enough for a family to gather one more memory.
Long enough for a miracle — big or small — to find her.
And whether she survives for another week or another month or another eighteen years, it shouldn’t matter to the people who choose to give.
Because giving blood is not about deciding who deserves life.
It is about offering life to anyone who needs it.
It is about refusing to let a child slip away simply because someone, somewhere, decided she was too sick to fight for.
Children like Brielle do not need strangers deciding their fate.
They need compassion.
They need medicine.
They need time.
They need people who believe in the value of their tomorrow, no matter how uncertain that tomorrow is.
Her mother does not hide her fear.
Anxiety claws at her every day, threatening to pull her under.
She tries not to think about the long stretch between immunotherapy rounds.
She tries not to let the dread settle in her stomach.
She tries to trust that God — or fate — or something bigger than the fear — is still in control.
She tries to breathe.
She tries to hope.
She tries to hold on.
Because Brielle still wants to live.
She still wants to dream.
She still wants a birthday.
She still wants a bracelet.
She still wants her mother’s hand.
And so her mother fights for her.
Through fear.
Through exhaustion.
Through the cold words of “professionals” who have forgotten what compassion sounds like.
Through the numbers that rise and fall on charts.
Through the dark nights when worry steals sleep.
Through every moment that reminds her how fragile all of this is.
Because no matter what anyone says, Brielle is worth fighting for.
And this family — trembling, praying, hoping — refuses to let anyone tell them otherwise.
So tonight, if you pray, pray for Brielle.
Pray for her strength.
Pray for her mother’s heart.
Pray that chemotherapy holds the disease still.
Pray that her symptoms stay mild.
Pray that her dreams — the tiny, tender, ordinary dreams — stay alive a little longer.
And pray that someday, somehow, she gets the birthday she longs for:
A shopping trip.
A walk side by side.
A mother’s hand in hers.
Two friendship bracelets shining together — proof that hope, even in the shadow of fear, is still real.
Saying Goodbye to Christina, Three Days Before Christmas.5819
We’re saying goodbye to Christina this morning.
Three days before Christmas.
Three days before her three-year-old son will wake up with that uncontrollable, breathless excitement only toddlers know, tearing into wrapping paper, shouting about toys, believing without question that magic is real.
Christina won’t be there to see Constantine jump for joy.
And that truth still feels impossible to hold.
I keep trying to understand it, and I can’t.
I feel too many emotions all at once—sadness so deep it feels physical, anger that flares without warning, confusion that circles back on itself no matter how many times I replay the facts. Six days ago, Christina returned to her Hoover home after an early morning jog, her body warm from movement, her lungs full of cold air, her mind likely already moving through the quiet checklist of the day ahead.
Minutes later, her life was gone.
She was the victim of a murder-suicide.
Those words sit heavy and wrong. They don’t fit the woman I knew. They don’t fit the life she lived. They don’t explain how something so senseless could erase someone so full of light.
I keep thinking about how unfair it all is.
How cruel.
How unnecessary.
Christina Chambers packed more life into thirty-eight years than most people manage in a lifetime.
She was the kind of person who didn’t just exist—she lived, intentionally and wholeheartedly. She loved running, not just as exercise, but as a celebration of what her body could do. She loved competition, the discipline, the challenge, the quiet pride that comes from pushing past limits. Running wasn’t just a hobby; it was part of who she was—early mornings, steady breaths, miles that cleared her mind and strengthened her spirit.
She loved her parents deeply, with a gratitude that never felt obligatory. She loved her four siblings in that layered way only siblings can—equal parts loyalty, laughter, shared history, and unconditional support. Family wasn’t something she talked about; it was something she showed up for, again and again.
And above all, she loved her son.
Constantine was her heart walking around outside her body. Every choice she made, every plan she formed, every prayer she whispered carried his name inside it. She spoke of him with joy and humility, as if motherhood wasn’t something she owned but something she had been entrusted with.
She loved baking pecan pies and Christmas sugar cookies with her mother, flour on the counters, laughter in the kitchen, traditions passed down through hands that had done this many times before. She loved the quiet joy of simple moments—the kind that don’t make headlines but build a life.
She loved life.
And she loved her Lord.
Christina Chambers lived a godly life in a way that never demanded attention. She never asked people to pray for her. Instead, she asked who she could pray for. In a world where so many seek affirmation, she sought service. Where others looked inward, she looked outward. Her faith wasn’t loud, but it was steady, sincere, and deeply lived.
I keep thinking about that.
About how rare it is.
About how easy it is to say we want to live like that—and how hard it is to actually do it.
Through the years, I’ve wondered if we should do more to Be Like Christina.
Not in grand gestures or public declarations, but in the quiet, daily choices that define who we are when no one is watching.
Don’t judge, but rather love.
Not the easy kind of love—the kind that feels natural—but the kind that takes patience, humility, and restraint. The kind that listens before speaking. The kind that leaves room for grace.
Be not spiteful, but kind.
Even when kindness costs something. Even when bitterness would feel justified. Christina had a way of choosing kindness without making it look performative. She didn’t weaponize goodness. She simply lived it.
Find a way to make others find the light.
She did that effortlessly. Not by preaching, but by example. By being someone whose presence felt safe, whose words felt thoughtful, whose actions reflected genuine care. People felt seen around her. Valued. Encouraged.
Yesterday, I visited Christina’s family during the visitation.
There is no adequate word for what I saw.
They are broken.
Not just grieving, but shattered by the kind of loss that doesn’t follow logic or fairness. The kind that leaves you asking questions no one can answer. A daughter. A sister. A mother. Taken in a way that defies understanding.
And yet—even in their brokenness—there was something else present.
Love.
Stories shared softly. Tears mixed with memories. A collective effort to hold one another upright when standing felt impossible. Grief was everywhere, but so was the unmistakable imprint of the woman they loved.
Christina’s life had shaped them.
And now, her absence does too.
I believe—truly believe—that if we all strive to Be Like Christina, we will comfort this family in ways words alone never can. We will honor her not just by remembering her, but by living differently because of her.
If we choose compassion over criticism.
If we choose kindness over cruelty.
If we choose to pray for others before asking for ourselves.
Then something good can still grow from this tragedy.
I think of Constantine.
Three years old.
Too young to understand why his mother won’t be there on Christmas morning. Too young to grasp the permanence of loss. Too young to know how deeply he was loved, how fiercely she dreamed for his future.
But one day, he will know.
He will hear stories.
He will see photos.
He will learn about a mother who ran hard, loved deeply, baked joy into holidays, and lived her faith with quiet strength. He will learn that her life mattered—that it still matters.
And maybe, in time, he will carry her light forward in ways none of us can yet imagine.
As we say goodbye to Christina today, I pray that the young woman with the word “Christ” in her name is resting at the side of Jesus. I pray that she knows how profoundly she was loved here, and how enduring her impact will be.
And as we move into the New Year—tender, shaken, uncertain—I pray that we remember her not only with sorrow, but with intention.
May we speak more gently.
May we judge less and love more.
May we look for ways to serve instead of be served.
May we ask, as Christina always did, Who can I pray for?
And may we all strive, every day, in small and meaningful ways, to Be Like Christina.