We’re still deep in the trenches right now… and truthfully, it feels like there’s no way out. Every day seems like an endless loop of heartbreak, a battle that repeats itself with no signs of relief.
Nothing has changed yet. Each time we step into Branson’s room, seeing him so small, so exhausted, our hearts break all over again. The helplessness is almost unbearable.
Today, Branson had to go back on oxygen because his levels were dropping. The doctors ran every test possible, including another chest X-ray, and thankfully, everything came back clear.
They believe this is just another cruel side effect of the relentless adenovirus he cannot seem to shake. It’s like an invisible enemy that never rests, constantly attacking, leaving him drained.
Yesterday, Branson was infused with more donor cells in the hope of giving his immune system an extra boost to fight these viruses. But his little body is just so tired.
He’s not only fighting the adenovirus and all its awful side effects, but the BK virus has returned too. It’s brutal. Every day feels like a new challenge, and sometimes it feels like we’re watching him being crushed by a storm we can’t stop.
Earlier this week, Branson underwent both a colonoscopy and an endoscopy to figure out why he’s in constant pain, vomiting, and struggling with stomach issues.
The results showed his intestines are extremely inflamed, with a significant buildup of fluid and air in his abdomen. That explained so much of the discomfort he’s been enduring. Thankfully, aside from the inflammation and pressure, everything else looked okay.
Branson is sleeping most days, barely eating or drinking, and so frail. We asked again about placing a feeding tube because his body is so malnourished, but the doctors said his platelets are still too low.
With all the vomiting, they feel it’s too risky right now. We’re praying that in the coming days his counts improve enough for them to place one because he desperately needs nutrition and strength.
The doctors have told us that because of all the harsh therapies he endured in the U.S. before coming here, his body is taking an even harder hit than most children do after a transplant.
Watching Branson suffer day after day is gut-wrenching beyond words. Each time he grimaces in pain, we feel every bit of it ourselves. The helplessness is a heavy weight we carry constantly.
We miss home more than words can express. We miss Donald. We miss Maddox and Maggie. We miss our dog. We miss our people, our routines, our life.
Living this nightmare in real time while the rest of the world keeps turning is nearly impossible. We feel like we’re standing still, waiting for some sign of relief for Branson.
Please pray. Pray, pray, and pray again that these new cells will take hold. Pray that Branson’s body will finally turn a corner.
Pray that the viruses will be cleared, the inflammation will calm, his pain will ease, his appetite and vision will return, and his strength will be restored. Branson deserves to feel good again. He deserves to just be a kid again.
We cling to faith, even when it feels impossible. Every single prayer being lifted for Branson carries us through.
They remind us that even in the darkest moments, we are not alone. The love and support pouring in from everyone around us give us the strength to keep going, day after day, minute after minute.
Every message, every prayer, every ounce of love and support means more than we can ever express. We could not make it a single day without each and every one of you. Your words, your care, your hope—they are what keep us standing. They are what keep Branson fighting.
Watching Branson lie there, we feel both helpless and determined. Every breath he takes reminds us of his strength, courage, and resilience.
We have seen Branson smile, even just fleetingly, between the pain and exhaustion. Those brief glimpses of happiness give us hope that one day he will come through this, healthy and strong, able to live the childhood he deserves.
While waiting for that miracle, we stay by Branson’s side, holding his hand, whispering words of love, and sending up every hope and prayer we can muster.
Every day is a battle, but we know we are not alone. The prayers and love from all of you are lifting us, giving us courage, and giving Branson a fighting chance.
And in the quiet moments, when Branson drifts off to sleep, we stand there, listening to his fragile breathing, silently promising that tomorrow will be different.
A day when his body may heal a little more, when the viruses may weaken, when his smile may return. We will not give up. We will continue to pray, to love, and to stand strong until Branson can return to the normal life he deserves.
Every day is a test of faith, a reminder of the fragility and preciousness of life, but also a reminder of the power of hope, love, and community. Branson’s fight is not just his own—it has become ours, yours, and everyone who is holding him in their hearts and prayers.
And together, we continue to hope for that day when he can finally be free from pain, free to be a child, free to live. A day when Branson’s body is strong, his smile is bright, and his childhood is restored to him. We will never give up.
Five Lives, One Journey Home: The Van Epps Family Remembered.5831
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.
