Home.

Dr. Rosen came to Kyrie's bedside this morning in PICU. He gently said that the chemo that they gave Kyrie was this best and biggest to treat this tumor. There are other chemo treatments out there, which Jordan and Lacie are welcome to try, but they would most likely make the inevitable worse. The brain tumor has grown into the majority of those valleys and crevices of Kyrie's little brain, pushing and consuming. The best option is the hardest.

She's down to 17 pounds. She hasn't opened her eyes, but she can hear you. She moves her right arm up and down a lot, always holding That. Sometimes she shakes her head "no, no, no," a little mumbling. She cried out as Jordan and Lacie got her dressed to go home. Her facial muscles can't tell you anything, but I think she's uncomfortable.

Hospice is coming in this afternoon. They'll administer the morphine. Jordan and Lacie are experts now at doing everything else.

Dr. Rosen said that once Kyrie is home, it isn't a matter of months or weeks; it's a matter of days. Evil is so damn fast.

So, I'm at a loss to accurately describe any of this for you. A dozen adults sobbing around a long, tiny body whose arm moves up and down holding a blanket. She just got here and now we have to figure out how to say goodbye. It isn't fair. It isn't right, and right now I really think His plan stinks.

Jordan and Lacie are great parents. I mean FANTASTIC. Never, ever have I heard them complain about getting up in the middle of the night with a baby. Never did they whine about diapers or making bottles or toys all over the house or the expenses or crusties in her nose or staying at home instead of going out or anything. They cherished the moment. They were grateful. They shared. And when she got sick, they stepped up to the plate. They comforted, they questioned the doctors, they rallied, they learned to give the injections, clean the line, give her IV food, watch her vitals, everything.

And to watch them even today, they are beside her, talking to her, crying, loving. And the rest of us are beside them all, talking to them, crying, loving.

Nothing makes sense right now. How many times does God have to hear Lacie cry, "I don't understand."? You love God. God gives you pain, and in the end, you're supposed to love Him for it. What? Where's the positive reinforcement? And why would He do this to people who already believe, love and follow Him? And I know that "We aren't meant to understand His will," but why would He make pain like this a riddle, a game? And why isn't His will doled out fairly?

I dunno. I wish I could console them, myself and you. I'd gladly exchange the prayers for peace, comfort, continued faith and sustainment simply for healing.

Please stay with us. The next several days are going to be a heavy load.