Nine days ago, I sat atop a picnic blanket on the banks of the Guadalupe in Hunt, Texas, cheering on my nine-year-old daughter in her camp closing tribal competition — clapping for her in my Tejas purple beneath the bald cypress trees, tracking her body as she swam freestyle across a glassy, beautifully calm and emerald green river.
Today I sit numb, clutching my phone as I wait for news and texts and direct messages, hitting refresh on my feed over and over. I am heartbroken for families, friends, and neighbors deeply connected to mine — through church and high school and college — knowing that this same river water raged frothy and murky brown, having claimed their daughters, toddlers, parents, and grandparents in a torrent of rain and unprecedented flooding.
It’s almost impossible to reconcile — the same stretch of river that held friendly competition and celebration before my eyes just days ago now bears the weight of unfathomable grief. To underscore the speed and scale of the catastrophic flooding in the Texas Hill Country this past weekend: the Guadalupe River rose 26 feet in just 45 minutes. As I write, the death count has surpassed 80, and desperate search and rescue efforts continue.
And unimaginably, among the confirmed dead and those still missing are dozens of young Camp Mystic girls, many away from home for the first time. The girls of Bubble Inn, Twins I, and Twins II, cabins holding first-time campers. Second graders. Lord, be near.
For those unfamiliar, summer camp is a deep part of Texas culture, and Mystic has long been held in particularly high regard by families — not just across the state but the nation, as well. And for generations. Parents often put their daughters on the list when they are still in diapers, doing the math on the application and counting the summers until their daughters will be old enough to attend.
The camp’s long history is deeply rooted in tradition, faith, and family. Just as my two daughters received a James Avery centennial bracelet charm to commemorate Camp Waldemar’s 100th summer a few weeks ago, so too would the girls of Mystic have received a similar charm from their parents or grandparents next summer, in Mystic’s 100th year. The deep friendships forged in those cabins and canoes are so tender; it isn’t unusual at Texas weddings to see a lineup of bridesmaids composed entirely of Mystic girls, friends who spent their summers climbing Chapel Hill together on Sundays, dressed in their whites, sweating and swaying to hymns. It was only days ago that parents pulled up to camp with their bright-eyed, eager daughters at the start of second term, their car windows sprawled with green painted celebratory messages: “Mystic bound!” And for those precious first-year campers, mere eight-year-olds ready to draw for a tribe: “Tonk or Kiowa?!” Daughters leaned out of car windows, grinning and waving, being met by a tunnel of counselors singing the girls through those green gates, welcoming them to the summer they’d been waiting for all year.
We cry out as we consider the Eastland family. For Dick, who died trying to save his girls. For Tweety. For Glenn, Mystic’s night security guard that floated the girls of Wiggle Inn on mattresses to safety. For La Junta. Stewart. Waldemar. Arrowhead + Honey Creek. Heart-o-the-Hills, for Jane Ragsdale.
The collective grief and loss felt across the state is amplified, of course, by those swept from their homes or campsites along the river, apart from Mystic or the Kerr County summer camp community. Entire families. Grandparents. Toddlers in sleep sacks. The Zunkers: Tivy’s soccer coach and wife. The Harber sisters, found holding hands. Our stomachs lurch as we hear of eight-year-old Jenna, whose mother, father, and little brothers were lost to the flood as she sat on her bunk, away at Camp Longhorn.
Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy.
In this moment, I’m not stuck so much on the “Why?” — though I am deeply grateful to Sissy Goff of Daystar Counseling Ministries (@raisingboysandgirls) for her practical support as I’ve stumbled through my words, trying to walk alongside my daughters as they ask questions of me and their Daddy.
I am mostly gripped now by the “How?”
How does one hold both extreme proximity to catastrophic loss and their normal life all at once? How do I receive a text message about a friend’s daughter’s body being found and then open my email to see 4th of July promotional sales? How do I take in images of ravaged cabins with mud lines above the door frames and then turn to answer my toddler’s question about clouds? How do I fold my daughter’s freshly washed camp towels and pack them into her trunk for next summer, when I can’t stop my hands from shaking?
I don’t pretend to really know, but in my helplessness, I turn my palms upward. I open both my hands.
In one hand, we carry the names of these daughters and children. We remember the curve of their cheeks, their preference for pepperoni over cheese, their messy ponytails they just learned to do themselves, their pink and aqua and purple trunks freshly painted with their names on top, the playful patterned camp sheets they picked out from Target.
We say their names aloud. Linnie, Molly, Abby, Margaret, Janie, Eloise, Kellyanne, Anna Margaret, Lila, Sarah, Renee, Virginia, Ellen, Katherine, Cile, Greta, Wynne, Mary, Lainey, Blakely, Mary Grace, Hadley, Mary Kate, Rebecca, Hannah, their counselors Katherine, Chloe. And Lord, there are certainly more. And we gently tie green ribbons around our trees.
In our other hand, we hold our own children and families and remember that we, too, are but dust. We pour milk into sippy cups, we find lost soccer uniforms, we tuck loose hair behind ears, we hold hands as we cross the street, we kiss foreheads. And we weep, remembering that Jesus is no stranger to sorrow.
Certainly, just as Jesus wept at the side of Lazarus, so too does the God of hope weep with us as we gaze upon images of jack-o-lantern toothed grins spread across the faces of these little girls. And we will continue to pray, particularly after the posts stop and the news fade — we will keep showing up and keep checking in on one another.
And as we find ourselves in the midst of things we cannot understand or even fathom, we trust that even as death and darkness bring us to our knees, we are not alone. God is committed to the people he made. He does not look away nor abandon us. We remind ourselves that, in love, he sent his only begotten Son into the flood — the deluge of sin and death — not to watch from a distance, but to be swept into it himself. And because of that, we hold fast to the promise that this isn’t the end of the story. A day is coming when the sea will be no more, and death will be no more, and every tear will be wiped from every eye.
And in that coming day, beneath a new heaven and new earth, we will sit again by the water — not the floodwaters of chaos, but the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God. We will rest beneath the cypress trees in a natural cathedral, and there, along a river that no longer destroys but heals, Jesus will join us atop our picnic blankets and gather us all — every sun-kissed child, every grief-worn parent. He will draw us close to his bosom, as a mother soothes her child, and we will be held in the arms of the One to whom we have always belonged.
As we pray, we must also listen for God’s help. Perhaps. At last, someone in this age of refined communication will develope a very loud signal that will blast in the night alerting those along the river that the weather service is sending a life threatening message to anyone in harm’s way.
Camps are famous for embracing their wilderness environments and device free policies. Cell phones often don’t work in the wilderness and often no phones are not heard in the middle of the night. Even if the weather service had access to contact info for everyone along the rivers as they knew they were rising. ..it was after midnight before the warnings were evolving. This tragedy has happened 5 times before and is predictable.
We need a large horn signal that resonates for miles. They were in place a hundred years ago for volunteer fire departments across the land.
This can be accomplished. It must be addressed. We must enact a warning system that is so loud in real emergencies that those in danger can respond and react.
If this happens, these dear souls have not died in vain. Pray for their souls, but first pray for change.
“But to be swept up into it himself…” gorgeous piece, Em. Honored to be your friend. Radiant.
Beautiful.
Thank you Emily for saying so eloquently what we are all feeling.
Faithfully and eloquently said. Thank you, Emily.
So wonderfully written, Em. You captured what we are all feeling.
We are all Mystic Girls in some shape or form and we have all here lost a sister. I was not sent to camp, but my girls were at Mystic for many years, Caroline recently a Counselor at Bubble Inn so this could have been her. Such a tragic freak accident. My girls cherish their Mystic Days, and even our son who attended Stewart for 8 years is thanking me for sending him to camp, appreciating all he learned and wishes he lived close enough to help with the cleanup. We LOVE Dick and Tweety as they absolutely LOVED our girls. The Spirit of Mystic is strong, and it shall prevail.
Thank you for this. I just dropped my entire world at their overnight camp yesterday. I’ve wept since they’ve been gone, like a mad woman. It is unimaginable the pain these families feel and that hurts my soul. Thank you to Diana Sullivans response above as well. These little girls must not have died in vain, we must do better to enact saftey measures that can protect our children and hopefully prevent this from happening again. God bless Camp Mystic and all campers and their families.
So beautiful Emily. Grateful for you.
Sending love & condolences to all… What a horrific thing.
You’ve captured more than what our hearts & minds can begin to comprehend. A true gift,
thank you Emily 🙏🏻🙏🏻
So beautiful Emily, thank you for sharing your heart.
Thank you! So beautifully written! My heart aches for these families! Jesus be near!
Just beautiful Emily. You captured every feeling so well. Thank you dear sister for putting words to that space where we all struggle to put together even the simplest string of thought. Love you!
You have captured the tension we all feel so deeply this side of heaven. Thank you for honoring these precious girls and their families in the most beautiful way. These words will be cherished and I’m certain I will return to them as my family and our community moves through the heaviness of these tragedies.
Emily, we were with you at camp last week, with our granddaughter and your daughter in the same cabin and becoming fast friends at camp. Like you, I feel helpless and grief stricken as we hear of those who lost their precious loved ones. Like you, have found solace in prayer and knowing that God does not abandon us. Your have captured this so very well.
Amen, Emily. Thank you for articulating what’s on our hearts.
Thank you! This has helped me as it will so many others❤️
Beautifully expressed, Emily. Thank you for the comforting reassurance of God’s great love in the midst of darkness.
Thank you for sharing your words with us all, Emily. You’ve no doubt given a voice to so many who are struggling to make sense of this all. In this time of darkness and sorrow, you’re a shining light. ❤️
Thank you em. Love you. Beautiful
Thank you
Thank you Emily. This is beautiful. 💚
This is so beautiful! Love you!!
This is beautifully written. I have friends who are closely connected to this tragedy. Even though I am not, it is still all I think about. It is hard to grapple with continuing with everyday life while knowing these families lives are horribly altered forever. Thank you for your words and know that there are so many out here grieving with you.
Thank you so much for wrapping this story with visceral contextual meaning. CNN did not add your ´between the lines’ emotional depth that resonates in such a poignant way. My husband and I read your letter this morning both experiencing personal layers of touchstones and tears. We are all connected. We are all God’s children regardless of race, color or creed. I’m sorry for your community’s loss.
Thank you for taking the time to share. I hope your sharing starts you and others on a healing pathway.
Thank you for these thoughtful, heartfelt reflections, Emily. Grieving with you.
Faithfully and beautifully written. Thank you.
Best thing I’ve read. Thank you. My Camp Arrowhead songs have been playing in a loop in my mind, from 50 years ago. “Camp Arrowhead you will always be a sign of love and friendship and true sincerity and we will always cherish memories that will linger in our hearts forever …..” This tragedy cuts to the core. You captured it.
Emily, thank you for this beautifully written piece, obviously from your heart.
The visual image of Jesus accompanying these children , in those raging flood water, is comforting. “God is committed to the people he made. He does not look away nor abandon us. We remind ourselves that, in love, he sent his only begotten Son into the flood — the deluge of sin and death — not to watch from a distance, but to be swept into it himself. And because of that, we hold fast to the promise that this isn’t the end of the story. A day is coming when the sea will be no more, and death will be no more, and every tear will be wiped from every eye.”
Thank you, Emily. Your words are both comforting and troubling, but are needed so much right now.
Emily, This was beautiful. Thank you for writing this powerful message.
Emily,
This is so beautifully written and from your heart! You captured what many of us feel but have a loss when it comes to words!
Thank you! The only way to navigate this is letting Christ guide us.
So touching and powerful. Thank you for this, Emily.
As a Mystic mom of 3, this just said it all and so so beautifully. Thank you! 💚💚💚
Thank you Emily for these beautiful words. Your writing will help those who have gone through this terrible disaster.
It rains hard in Houston and the flooded street scares me. Will rain always bring this wash of unease?
You captured our feelings and fears and reminded us of hope.
Thank you
Jan
AMEN… Thank you for putting words as if in a prayer…
This writing is a gift to all who read it …. it almost feels like you were a vessel for God giving comfort .
How eloquent and beautifully written this message is, with tears streaming down my face, I read every word. Thank you for this lifeline!
Thank you for reading our hearts.
Thank you for this beautiful piece, capturing feelings so well. Lord, be near.
I am praying 🙏 for the children not found yet. Knowing God has them in His Loving Arms.
My appreciation for your essay tonite, trying to make any sense of this horrifying tragedy, your story, so well written, describes, from your heart to mine, in the best way I could receive this at this moment. Jesus sits on the shores of the receding river and weeps and weeps, his tears drifting down the swollen waters towards the sea.
Thank you for your lovely writing, Emily. I have spent some of my happiest days on the Guadalupe River in Hunt, TX and have been absolutely heartbroken for the families and friends who have lost their beloved.
Amen.
Beautiful, Emily. Thank you.
The Hill Country Devastation
W. Wendell Hall
In the wake of the horrific tragedy in the Texas Hill Country — where so many innocent children were lost, entire families taken, and some children left orphaned — many are asking the most difficult of question: “Why did God allow this to happen?”
Some are angry at God. Everyone is devastated beyond words. I understand. I’ve been there.
When our daughter, M.E., died after a 4 ½ year battle with cancer, one of the first things my very wise wife said to me was, “We are at a fork in the road.” She said to me that we had a choice. We could choose anger and bitterness for the loss of her life, or be grateful to God for entrusting M.E. to us — even if only for 9½ years. Of course, I chose gratitude. It would have been a betrayal of M.E.’s beautiful, joyful, and faithful life to live in anger or bitterness.
And so I held fast to the truth I know: in God’s perfect time, I will be reunited with her in the Kingdom of Heaven.
Some years later, we heard a Baptist preacher speak on grief and anger at our church. He shared a heartbreaking story: his teenage son had battled depression in his early teens and, after treatment, he seemed to have recovered. But at 19, the darkness suddenly returned — and before help could intervene, his beautiful son took his own life.
The pastor was gutted with grief and consumed by anger. He asked God again and again, “Why?”
And he told us something I’ve never forgotten: He knew God was big enough to handle his anger.
He poured out his questions, his fury, and his sorrow before the Lord. In time, and only through time, prayer, and reading Scripture, his anger slowly softened. He didn’t get an answer to his question “Why?” but he gained peace.
And this wise, wounded man said something profound (paraphrased): When I enter the Kingdom of Heaven and see my son again — when I stand in the presence of my God and my Savior — the question ‘Why?’ will either be answered or it simply will no longer matter.”
That has stayed with me.
In this life — our fallen, temporal, aching, broken world — we can’t help but ask “Why?” We feel confusion, sadness, and anger. That is part of being human. And I believe God welcomes our questions and even our anger. He can handle all of it. He created us, and He wants our relationship in all its forms.
But as Christians, we believe with all our hearts that when we step into eternity, we’ll see the full picture — or we simply won’t need to. In that place, “every tear will be wiped away, and death shall be no more” (Revelation 21:4).
We are all grieving deeply, angry, confused, and/or numb — and that’s okay. It would be odd if we didn’t feel this way. This Hill Country tragedy defies our human comprehension.
Max Lucado put it beautifully: “Grieve, but don’t grieve like those who don’t know the rest of the story.” And Pope John Paul II reminded us: “We are the Easter people, and hallelujah is our song.”
We do know the rest of the story.
The cross was not the end. The tomb did not win. Jesus is risen — and because He lives, we too shall live.
J.R.R. Tolkien captured this better than most when he wrote: “The birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus mean that one day, everything sad will come untrue.”
The sadness is profound and gut-wrenching right now. But one day, by God’s grace, it will come untrue.
Until then, may God hold you close, and may you hold Him close.
May He hear your questions and even your anger.
May He be your comforter.
And may you cling, even in your most profound sorrow, to the blessed hope of the Resurrection.
Hallelujah remains our song even during this unfathomable pain.
And one day, everything sad will come untrue.
God is on the bathroom floor by Nightbirde (an excellent read)
https://www.nightbirde.co/blog/2021/9/27/god-is-on-the-bathroom-floor
A prayer called “ The Chaplet of the 7 Sorrows of Mary” was very helpful to me when my son drowned in an accident. It may be to soon now for some but I hope it brings you peace knowing the Mother of Jesus knows exactly what your going through and Jesus . You are never alone and they are both by your side .
I am tying a green ribbon around my tree today!
[…] near and far are connected to Camp Mystic and the lives lost. On this website, Emily Newton wrote a deeply affecting tribute to the camp and all who died there. PZ’s Podcast also addressed the tragedy through a little-known movie and the Mr. Mister song […]
This touched my hurting heart.
Thank you so much for this beautifully written piece. It captures my heartfelt sadness for the children and their parents. And it gives me hope.
Thank you, Emily.
This touched my heart deeply. Thank you 🩷
I will always cherish and admire your way with words. You articulated so much that has rendered me speechless. Grateful for your wisdom Emily!
Emily: I’m a pastor at a church outside Birmingham, Alabama. I was able to share this reflection and encouragement with our congregation on Sunday during our time of family prayer that centered on grieving with hope. Thank you for your ministry to us!
My sister/friend died on 7/6, and I read this the next day. It was so meaningful to me, and I was impressed by your ability to articulate things so clearly while still so close to the event. I quoted your last two paragraphs in my eulogy to my sister that I shared in her service on 7/19 and also here in print:
https://open.substack.com/pub/pullupsinthebasement/p/death-in-the-summertime?r=109vtw&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=false
Beautiful Emily! Grateful for you and for being on Mbird staff!!
I missed this article when it was originally posted. Thank you for the reminder that this happened. The news of the catastrophic flood in North Carolina, Virginia and Tennessee eclipsed the tragic flooding at Camp Mystic in the news cycle here. In 2023, just down the road a few miles from where I live, 7 people lost their lives in a flash flood that occurred where one never had before, and it was fed by a small stream that one would barely ever even notice. It turned into a wall of water that took these folks away, including two children; one baby that was never found and a small child that the water ripped from his grandmothers arms as she desperately tried to hold on. Pain and loss are no respecter of persons. I read a book by Jerry Sittser; “A Grace Disguised”. It’s one of the most honest accounts of wrestling through pain and tragedy I’ve ever encountered. I highly recommend it to all who have suffered catastrophic loss. Grateful for the grace and mercy of being able to”to weep with those who weep”. Joy comes in the morning…