The Hardest Job Is to Live | Chronicles of Kayla

I recently read a book dedication that simply said:

“For every soul who’s ever watched something precious slip through their fingers and didn’t pretend it didn’t hurt. You are not broken for grieving. You are brave for remembering.”

I had to stop reading.

Because for months now, I’ve felt broken.

Not just sad. Not just heartbroken. Broken.

Keaton used to tell me I was his best friend. He was the little boy who reached for my hand everywhere we went. Somewhere along the way, as boys do, he grew up. He traded holding Mom’s hand for carrying a pair of pliers. He started walking beside Jason, fixing things, learning the farm, becoming the young man God was shaping him to be.

And I loved watching that happen.

I just never imagined how quickly those seasons would change.

The last year has been a roller coaster of emotions I’ve mostly shoved onto the back burner. There were chores to do. Cattle to feed. Hay to bale. A daughter who still needed her mom. A husband carrying more than anyone should. Life doesn’t stop because your heart does.

So you keep moving.

People often ask what the hardest day was.

Was it the diagnosis?

Oddly enough… no.

The hardest day for me was June 29, 2025.

The day Keaton gave his life to Christ.

That probably sounds backwards to most people.

It should have been the happiest day of our lives. And in many ways, it was.

But almost immediately afterward, it felt as though the enemy declared war.

Not just cancer.

Something deeper.

Something spiritual.

Yes, there was chemotherapy.

Hospital rooms.

Blood draws.

MRI scans.

Appointments that blurred together.

But underneath all of that, there was a battle we couldn’t see.

A spiritual warfare our family never expected to face.

This morning I read a friend talking about Adam and Eve.

God already knew they would reach for the fruit.

He wasn’t surprised.

Nothing caught Him off guard.

That thought settled into my heart.

God already knew what June 29, 2025, would bring.

He already knew every prayer we would pray.

Every tear we’d cry.

Every miracle we’d witness.

Every goodbye we’d eventually say.

And somehow…

He was still faithful.

Because what came from that day was bigger than our family.

Faith spread.

Prayer spread.

An entire community surrounded one small-town farm family with more love than we could have imagined.

People who had never prayed before began praying.

Churches prayed.

Schools prayed.

Farmers prayed from tractor seats.

Children prayed in classrooms.

Keaton’s story reached places we will probably never fully know this side of Heaven.

And Keaton…

He kept getting back up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

He rallied from what doctors said shouldn’t have been possible more times than I can count.

Not because he was fearless.

But because his faith had become bigger than his fear.

This morning, as I sat quietly listening to Rex and Jae in Keaton’s room, a wave of thankfulness washed over me.

Not because this journey has been easy.

It hasn’t.

Not because I understand it.

I don’t.

But because this was never meant to be our forever home.

This earth is temporary.

Heaven is forever.

Keaton was placed here with a purpose.

And when I look back, I don’t see a boy whose life was cut short.

I see a life that was completely poured out.

He loved deeply.

He worked hard.

He laughed often.

He put up thousands of bales.

He rode countless acres beside us.

He quietly showed people what courage looked like.

He didn’t spend his days asking, “Why me?”

He simply lived.

Strongly.

Proudly.

Faithfully.

Now the job left behind belongs to us.

And if I’m honest…

I think it’s the hardest one.

To live.

To keep showing up when part of your heart lives in Heaven.

To laugh without feeling guilty.

To make plans for tomorrow while missing yesterday.

To choose hope when grief would rather make you stay still.

But that’s exactly what Keaton asked us to do.

Live.

So that’s what I’m trying to do.

One sunrise.

One windrow.

One field.

One story at a time.

I’ll keep writing.

I’ll keep sharing.

I’ll keep telling people about the goodness of God—even on the days when I don’t understand His plan.

Because honoring God’s will isn’t only easy when life is good.

Sometimes honoring Him means trusting Him while your heart is breaking.

Sometimes it means remembering.

And maybe that’s what bravery really is.

Not pretending it doesn’t hurt.

But choosing to carry the hurt with hope.

Because at the end of the day…

Keaton still shows up.

In the fields.

In Jae’s laughter.

In Rex waiting outside his bedroom door.

In every young person choosing faith.

In every family finding hope.

In every story that points someone toward Jesus.

His testimony didn’t end on April 18.

It simply changed where it was being told.

And I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure people keep hearing it.