On June 30, 2024, a journey that began with laughter, pride, and the lingering glow of a family memory ended in silence, leaving behind an absence so deep it is still difficult to comprehend.

The Van Epps family had been on their way home to Georgia, returning from Cooperstown, New York, a place that had become sacred ground for so many families who gather there not just to celebrate baseball, but to celebrate childhood itself.

For James Ryan Van Epps and his wife, Laura, the trip was never just about a tournament.

It was about time.

Time together.

Time watching their sons grow into themselves.

Time spent cheering from the sidelines, laughing over late-night meals, and soaking in moments they knew would someday live only in memory.

James and Laura were the kind of parents who measured success not by trophies, but by the character of their children.

They believed in showing up.

They believed in faith.

They believed that love, when given freely and consistently, had the power to shape a life.

Their sons, James Ryan Jr.—known to everyone simply as JR—and ten-year-old Harrison, were the living proof of that belief.

JR, at twelve, carried himself with a quiet confidence that came from knowing he was deeply loved.

He was thoughtful, curious, and fiercely loyal, the kind of boy who looked out for others without being asked.

Harrison, younger by two years, matched his brother step for step, his joy spilling out in laughter that could fill a room.

Where JR was steady, Harrison was electric.

Together, they were inseparable.

They shared more than a love for baseball.

They shared a bond forged in backyard games, long car rides, inside jokes, and the unspoken comfort of knowing that no matter what happened, they had each other.

In Cooperstown, they were exactly where they belonged.

Surrounded by teammates, parents, and coaches, the boys lived out a dream that countless young athletes hold close to their hearts.

They played hard.

They laughed harder.

They wore their uniforms with pride and returned each night tired, happy, and eager to tell their parents every detail of the day.

James and Laura watched from the stands, cheering until their voices grew hoarse.

They took photos they planned to look back on for years.

They talked about the future.

High school games.

College visits.

The kind of conversations parents have when they imagine their children growing older, stronger, and more independent, while still hoping time might slow just a little.

Laura’s father, Roger Beggs, was there too.

Not just as a grandfather, but as a constant, grounding presence.

Roger had always been a man of quiet strength and open generosity.

He was adventurous in spirit, the kind of person who believed life was meant to be experienced fully, not cautiously observed from a distance.

As a father, he had raised Laura with patience and encouragement.

As a grandfather, he delighted in JR and Harrison, never missing a chance to celebrate their achievements or listen intently as they talked about their dreams.

Roger was also a pilot.

Flying was more than a skill for him.

It was a passion.

A way of seeing the world from a different perspective.

A way of connecting places, people, and moments.

On June 30, the family boarded the single-engine aircraft together, ready to return home.

It was supposed to be the final chapter of a perfect trip.

They had a planned fuel stop.

They had a destination waiting.

They had each other.

The weather, however, had other plans.

Somewhere along the route, conditions worsened.

Investigators would later say weather was believed to be a contributing factor, though the full story would take time to uncover.

The aircraft never made it home.

In a single, devastating moment, five lives were lost.

James.

Laura.

JR.

Harrison.

Roger.

Five names.

Five stories.

Five irreplaceable presences ripped away from the people who loved them.

The news spread quickly, and then it spread slowly, in the way tragedies do—one phone call at a time, one stunned conversation after another.

Friends struggled to find words.

Teammates didn’t know how to process the loss of boys they had played beside just days earlier.

Parents hugged their own children a little tighter that night, suddenly aware of how fragile even the happiest moments can be.

For those who knew the Van Epps family, the loss felt personal, even if they couldn’t explain why.

James Ryan Van Epps was a man who lived his values.

He was devoted to his family, steady in his faith, and generous with his time.

He was the kind of father who listened.

The kind of husband who supported without condition.

He believed in leading by example, in showing his sons what it meant to be kind, responsible, and compassionate.

Laura Van Epps was warmth personified.

She had a gift for making people feel seen.

As a mother, she poured herself into her boys’ lives, balancing encouragement with gentle guidance, always reminding them that effort mattered more than outcome.

Her love for her family was unmistakable, woven into everything she did.

JR and Harrison were still so young, yet they had already left a mark.

Coaches remembered their sportsmanship.

Friends remembered their smiles.

Teachers remembered their curiosity.

They were the kind of boys who made teams better simply by being part of them.

Roger Beggs leaves behind a legacy that stretches across generations.

As a father, he gave his daughter confidence and independence.

As a grandfather, he offered unconditional love and endless encouragement.

As a pilot, he carried a sense of responsibility that came with guiding others safely through the skies.

Those who knew him remember his laughter, his generosity, and his willingness to help whenever he was needed.

The investigation into the crash will continue.

The National Transportation Safety Board’s final report is not expected until late 2025 or 2026.

Facts will be gathered.

Data will be analyzed.

Questions will be answered, at least in part.

But no report can explain the emptiness left behind.

No conclusion can restore what was lost.

In the wake of such tragedy, people often search for meaning.

They ask why.

They ask how.

They ask what could have been done differently.

Those questions are human, and they are understandable.

But sometimes, meaning is found not in answers, but in remembrance.

The Van Epps family lived a life rooted in love.

They showed up for each other.

They celebrated together.

They believed in faith, family, and community.

That legacy does not disappear with their passing.

It lives on in the stories told by friends.

In the lessons learned by teammates.

In the countless small ways they touched the lives of others.

It lives on in the way JR and Harrison played the game—with joy, respect, and heart.

It lives on in the example James and Laura set as parents and partners.

It lives on in the adventurous spirit Roger carried with him, both on the ground and in the air.

Grief has a way of distorting time.

Moments stretch.

Days blur.

The absence becomes louder than any sound.

For those closest to the family, the road ahead will be unimaginably difficult.

There will be milestones that arrive without them.

Birthdays.

Holidays.

Baseball seasons that come and go.

And yet, love has a way of enduring.

It lingers in photographs.

In shared memories.

In the quiet moments when someone recalls a laugh, a gesture, a familiar phrase.

The Van Epps family may no longer be physically present, but they are not gone.

They are carried forward in the hearts of those who loved them.

In the lessons they taught simply by the way they lived.

In the reminder they leave behind: that life is precious, time is fleeting, and love is the most lasting legacy any of us can hope to leave.

As we hold this family in our thoughts and prayers, may we also honor them by choosing kindness, by showing up for one another, and by cherishing the moments we so often assume will always be there.

Because sometimes, the most ordinary journey becomes unforgettable.

And sometimes, the deepest impact is left not by how long a life is lived, but by how fully it is loved.