Avry has always been a healthy, strong little girl—so full of spirit and joy. There's never been any guessing what she wants or what she loves; she lives with her whole heart and lets the world know it. She adores her big brother and would run after him with all her might, determined to keep up with his pace. Every day, she'd ask if we could have a "picnic snack" on the front porch while we waited for Trace to come home from school. And the second she saw him? Pure squeals of joy. 

She'd light up just the same when Jake pulled into the lane after work-waving with her whole little body from the porch like sunshine in motion. 

Avry loves flamingoes and often strikes her best flamingo pose just to make us laugh. Rainbows, bubbles, wildflowers, daisies with smiley faces (she calls them "hallelujahs"), puppies, painting, swimming, and singing-all of these are her favorites. And pink. Everything pink. Though she's recently added black to her list-thanks to her favorite service dog, Odessa. 

She is truly our rainbow girl. The long-awaited light after years of Trace praying for a sister. Our home, our hearts, our lives—all light up brighter because of her. 

Until Thursday, March 6, 2025 

On March 7, I took Avry to the ER because she refused to walk-for the second day in a row. 

She wasn't running a fever. No rash. No cough. Nothing obvious. But she hadn't been eating since Thursday, and she just wasn't herself. Something felt off. And as her mama, I couldn't shake it. 

We packed a bag and Avry and I headed to Dell Children's in Austin telling ourselves it was probably just some weird virus she'd picked up from our recent trip to the Bahamas. But deep down, I knew we didn't want to sit through the weekend wondering. There were two small bruises that had shown up before and were back again. Nothing major, but enough to linger in the back of my mind. Still— she's three. She climbs, she tumbles, she plays hard. We brushed it off. 

By Friday night, she was walking again with the help of pain meds. Every test they ran came back clear. They decided to keep her one more night for observation-just to be sure. 

Saturday passed with no new answers. Then came the question: Do you want to go through with the MRI on Sunday? 

We almost said no. She was up. She looked like herself. We were ready to go home. 

But something in me-deep in my gut-said, Do it anyway. So we did. 

The initial MRI came back clear. We exhaled. 

Until hours later, when a team of doctors walked in, introduced themselves as "oncologists," and with stone faces... shattered our world. 

"Neuroblastoma.  Stage 4." 

"We need to start treatment today. Your little girl may only have a few weeks..." 

I still hear those words. I still see their faces. I remember Jake grabbing me as the room closed in. One minute we were playing Candy Land with our children bouncing off the walls... the next, we were being escorted to the oncology floor. 

Our new home. Our new language. Our new life. 

Nothing prepares you for that. Nothing. 

There were no signs. No warnings. No gentle build-up. Just boom-your baby has cancer and is dying. A fast, aggressive, terrifying kind. And there's no time to process, no time to breathe. In less than a week, she was already halfway through her first round of chemo. 

Everything changed. Our world flipped upside down-shattered and paused —while we fight for her life. 

There's no time to collapse in a corner. No room to fall apart. So we do the only thing we can—we take the next step. 

We hold her hand. We smile through tears. We whisper you're so brave when we feel anything but. 

We are absolutely devastated by the cruel diagnosis and the brutal treatment plan that follows. Watching her tiny body endure so much is soul crushing, and words can't even explain. But Avry is fierce. She is full of fight, and though we are walking through a storm, God is here. 

We are holding on with everything we have. Praying for a miracle. Clinging to the goodness of God-even when our hearts are shattered. We believe He is still writing something beautiful in the middle of this pain. And though this chapter is one we never would have chosen...we still trust the Author. Even here. Especially here. Even if- no matter what-He's still good. 

"Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion 

until the day of Christ Jesus." Phil 1:6 

Thank you for loving us. For standing with us. For every prayer, every message, every check-in— your support has become the strength beneath us, carrying us through the hardest moments. 

Please know this: you are important to us. We feel your care. And we are so deeply grateful. 

Honored to walk this journey with her- Jake & Rose and Trace Schapansky

Avry Jo is now 6 months into her 20 months of treatment, and by God’s grace, her body has been responding well. She has completed five rounds of chemotherapy and immunotherapy, high-dose chemo (conditioning) and her first stem cell transplant. She just had a lovely 3 week stretch of recovery at home - the longest she’s been home since March. She is ready to head back in for her second transplant (using her own stem cells) at the end of September. This next transplant will be a longer hospital stay and much more intense, especially since her body is already so weary from all it’s endured.

But she is strong - such a fighter- and considering everything, she’s doing remarkably well. It isn’t easy preparing for the hospital again after having enjoyed so much “normal” family life again - but that’s exactly what needs to happen so that, Lord willing, they can enjoy many more years of being a complete family.

And Jake, her daddy, is needing to take approximately four full months off work to be exactly where he belongs: by his daughter’s side as she fights for her life. 

And while they’re holding her hand through the worst of it, everyday life keeps going. The bills keep coming. Hospital charges grow. Travel costs pile up. 

Following transplant is radiation. This means their little family will need to travel out of the area for the entire month of treatment—yet another major cost on top of everything else. They will need to find a rental close to that hospital since all the Ronald McDonald houses in the area are full.

Watching your child suffer is agony enough. They shouldn’t also have to carry the weight of financial strain. This is where we come in.

We’re asking—pleading—to help raise enough to cover at least four months of lost income, unreimbursed medical expenses, and all the unexpected costs that come with having a child in the fight of her life.

Even $10 helps. If 10,000 people gave $10, that’s a powerful start. No gift is too small. Every dollar matters. Every act of generosity reminds them they are not alone.

Thank you for loving them. For lifting them. For praying, giving, and sharing.

Please share this link with your people. Your church. Your community. Let’s be the village that carries them through the hardest chapter yet.