A Father’s Goodbye, A Son’s Battle, and A Family’s Faith

This morning brought with it one of the hardest goodbyes we have ever faced.

Donald had to travel back home, and as he walked away, the weight of his absence pressed down on every heart in the room.

Goodbyes are never easy, but this one felt almost unbearable.

Every embrace lingered longer, every kiss on Branson’s forehead felt like it had to hold more love than words could ever carry.

The silence that followed his departure echoed louder than any sound, filling the room with a heaviness that words cannot describe.

For Branson, lying in his hospital bed, the love of his father did not leave with him — it remained, wrapped around him like a shield, even as miles began to stretch between them.

And for those of us staying by his side, we knew that emptiness would follow us into every moment of the coming days.

Our hearts are so unbearably heavy.

There is no way to soften the truth.

We are a family that has been tested again and again, stretched beyond limits we never thought we could endure.

And yet, through it all, we cling to our faith in the Lord more tightly than ever before.

We lean into Him because we cannot carry this burden on our own.

We lean into Him because when our strength fails, His does not.

We lean into Him because we believe that even in the darkest valleys, His light is still guiding us forward.

It is in that faith that we share our prayer requests, not because prayer is routine, but because prayer is our lifeline.

We believe that every prayer uttered, every word whispered, every tear that falls before the Lord makes a difference.

And so, we ask you to pray with us — not just for us, but for Branson.

🧡 We pray that Branson’s adenovirus levels will come down.

This unseen enemy has been waging war on his fragile body, draining his strength with every passing day.

It is ruthless, cruel, and relentless.

But we believe that God has authority even over the smallest of cells, even over the fiercest battles invisible to the human eye.

🧡 We pray that his new immune system will grow stronger each day and begin to fight this virus.

After months of preparation, procedures, and pain, Branson now carries a new immune system — one that is fragile, but filled with hope.

Right now it feels like a tiny flame flickering against the wind, but we know that God can breathe life into it until it burns brightly enough to protect him.

🧡 We pray that his counts will continue to rise and not fall anymore.

Every blood count feels like a verdict.

Every number we read is either a whisper of hope or a weight of fear.

We cling to the upward climb, and we tremble at the dips.

So we lift this prayer, asking God to keep Branson’s body moving forward, step by step, number by number, toward restoration.

🧡 We pray that God will ease his pain and bring him comfort.

No child should know this kind of suffering.

No child should close their eyes just to block out the agony within.

As parents, watching him hurt is its own unbearable kind of pain — one that leaves us powerless, aching, and desperate.

And yet we believe that God’s gentle hand can quiet the storm inside his little body and bring a peace that medicine cannot provide.

🧡 We pray that his vision will be restored and that his appetite will return.

These may seem like small things, but they are everything.

To see the faces he loves, to taste food again, to feel the simple joy of living — these are the gifts we long for Branson to have once more.

🧡 We pray that his mucositis will subside.

This painful condition has robbed him of so much, making every day harder than the last.

We pray for healing, for relief, and for strength when suffering feels unending.

🧡 We pray for peace and comfort beyond understanding to cover Branson and our entire family.

There are nights when fear strangles us and mornings when despair feels like a weight too heavy to carry.

But God’s peace is not like the world’s peace.

It surpasses understanding.

It fills the cracks where reason cannot reach, soothes wounds words cannot touch, and steadies us when nothing else can.

🧡 We pray that God will continue to show miracles through Branson’s story, drawing even nonbelievers closer to Him.

From the beginning, this journey has been more than medicine.

It has been about faith, about love, about the light of God shining in the darkness.

If one heart is moved, if one soul finds faith, if one person comes to believe in the God who heals, then Branson’s story carries eternal meaning.

🧡 We pray that Donald and I will remain strong and positive in the months ahead as we face the challenge of being apart.

Separation is never easy.

But separation when life feels this fragile is almost unbearable.

We ask for the strength to remain connected in spirit, for faith to bridge the distance, and for love to hold us steady even when miles separate us.

🧡 And finally, we pray for safe travels as Donald returns home.

The road is long, the miles are many, but we place his journey in God’s hands.

This goodbye has been heavy, but we trust that God will guide him home safely, just as we trust Him to hold Branson every moment he fights for his life.

Thank you for lifting these prayers.

We believe with all our hearts that each one makes a difference.

Every whispered prayer, every bowed head, every tear shed for our boy is woven into the fabric of hope that holds us together.

Branson’s journey has taught us that miracles are not always sudden and spectacular.

Sometimes miracles are small — a count that rises, a smile through pain, a night without fever.

Sometimes miracles are the strength of a family that keeps holding on when the world says to let go.

And sometimes the miracle is simply waking up to another day, another chance to love, another chance to hope, another chance to believe.

So we will keep praying.

We will keep hoping.

We will keep fighting.

And above all, we will keep trusting that God is writing a story far greater than anything we could imagine.

Maeve’s Battle Continues: Small Shadows in the Bone Marrow.1856

A milestone in numbers, but for Maeve and her family, it is so much more than that.
Each day is measured not only in time but in tears shed, in prayers whispered, in smiles stolen from the jaws of pain, and in updates that carry both relief and heartbreak.

This morning began differently, and that alone was enough to stir gratitude in the hearts of those who love her.
Maeve had a smoother start to her day.

Her body, which so often convulsed under the weight of breakthrough pain, had not yet cried out in suffering.
Her parents watched her carefully, daring to believe this small window of peace was a gift.

They savored the moments where her face relaxed, where her breath came evenly, where they could just see their little girl without the shadow of agony distorting her childhood.
For a few precious hours, life felt lighter.

But in the hospital, relief never seems to stand alone.
There are always results, tests, scans, and conversations that remind families how fragile hope can be.

Today the results were in — official, final, undeniable.
Her scans had looked good, good enough to draw smiles from her doctors, good enough to make her parents exhale after holding their breath for too long.
But hope was short-lived.

The truth arrived like a blow: the bone marrow biopsy from her right side revealed neuroblastoma.
It was hidden so well that it did not appear on the MIBG scans.

In the shadows, it remained invisible to the machines, waiting until the biopsy unearthed it.

The disappointment was sharp, unexpected, cruel.
How could the scans look so promising while the marrow told another story?

It was as if someone had declared the skies clear, only for thunder to roll in seconds later.

Still, her doctors did not abandon hope.
They reminded the family that the amount appeared very small, too small to register on imaging.
That, in itself, was a silver thread to hold onto.

Immunotherapy, they said, was a treatment capable of clearing the marrow.
It was brutal and relentless, but it was also powerful.

And so the plan began to take shape.
Maeve would likely move forward with a second round of immunotherapy.
Then, another biopsy would follow, another chance to measure progress, to see if the disease had begun to yield.

But her doctors did not make decisions in isolation.
They reached out to specialists across the neuroblastoma community, men and women who had walked this road with countless children before.

Together, they would weigh the options: continue the course as it stands, or add something extra — another drug, another intervention — that might tilt the battle in Maeve’s favor.

Her parents listened, absorbing every word, their hearts heavy yet still open to hope.
They had learned, painfully, that progress was rarely straightforward.
It came with steps forward and steps back, with victories that always seemed paired with new battles.

But even as these conversations unfolded, Maeve herself reminded everyone what they were fighting for.
Yesterday, she had yelled for her pink drink, refusing to be denied, clutching it in her hands until sleep overtook her.
Even in slumber, she held on tight, as though it were a treasure.

Today, she claimed she was not tired, even as her body begged for rest.
Her spirit, fiery and determined, seemed untouched by the disease that weighed on her marrow.
She was still a child, stubborn and playful, her personality louder than her diagnosis.

It is these moments, ordinary in other households but extraordinary here, that remind her family of the truth: Maeve is not just a patient.
She is a daughter, a little girl who deserves more pink drinks, more naps she insists she doesn’t need, more laughter echoing through her home instead of hospital walls.

Her parents share these updates not simply as medical reports but as lifelines, threads that bind them to a community of love and support.
They write because they need prayers, because they need positive energy, because they need to know they are not standing in this storm alone.

They know medicine is powerful, but so too is faith.
So too is the strength that comes when hundreds, even thousands, lift Maeve’s name in hope and love.

Day 25 has not been simple.
It has been filled with contradictions: a smooth morning followed by harsh truths, good scans paired with bad marrow, relief laced with disappointment.

But it has also been filled with resilience.
Resilience in the way Maeve still smiles, still fights, still clutches her drink and argues with sleep.

Resilience in the way her parents stand tall, carrying their exhaustion but never laying down their hope.
Resilience in the way a community rallies, refusing to let one small girl carry such a heavy burden alone.

This is not the end of Maeve’s story.
It is one more chapter, one more trial, one more reminder of the long and unpredictable road that cancer carves.
But it is also one more day where she is still here, still fighting, still lighting up the room with a spirit larger than life.

And so they move forward — to the next round of immunotherapy, to the next biopsy, to the next chance for healing.
They move forward with love, with faith, and with the prayers of many who carry Maeve in their hearts.

Because Maeve is not defined by the cancer in her marrow.
She is defined by her laughter, by her stubbornness, by her strength, by the love that surrounds her.
And as long as she fights, hope will never leave.