I really didn’t want to write this. Honestly, it feels like something I’d rather avoid.
While I was working out, push notifications lit up my phone. The camper van got a thorough cleaning just as the Guadalupe River surged dramatically within an hour. Once I left the gym, I hopped into the truck, feeling a bit rushed.
Now, I’m cramming sunscreen and swimsuits into two bags. My older kids are slated for sleepaway camp next week. How on earth do I break the news to them about an adventure that turned deadly for other families? What can someone like me even contribute when others are living through their worst fears? My gut instinct was to shut my laptop, say a quiet prayer, and stay silent.
But opting for silence isn’t always the right choice.
The whole campsite, from Carr County to the hidden roads of Texas Hill Country, has been decimated. Parents who anticipated nothing more than mosquitoes and storytelling are now sifting through riverbanks, searching for familiar belongings. They’re not looking for critics; they need us to witness their sorrow without turning it into another battleground in the culture war.
That’s what worries me the most.
Just hours after the sirens sounded, the online discourse became contentious. Was it climate change? An outdated flood map? Local negligence? Federal failure? Pick your side, retweet your narratives, and tally the scores. The victim’s identity wasn’t even known before the hashtags started trending. It’s like we’ve forgotten how to mourn without seeking to gain something from it.
“Where was God?” That question seems to echo loudly as the waters rose. Yet, storms don’t necessarily signify retribution. There’s more to God’s response than the mere beauty of a sunset.
Then came the flurry of “Thoughts and Prayers.” “TP&PS,” as Gen Z might say. If I lost a child, those words would feel like a gentle nudge in a room suddenly filled with heavy silence—well-intentioned yet painfully inadequate.
It’s not that prayers lack meaning. Because, in some ways, they really do.
When disaster strikes, Job’s friends sat with him silently for seven days. They didn’t speak a word, seeing how immense his grief was. There were no debates about carbon footprints or trending threads—only presence. Just silence. Just being together.
That’s likely the mindset we need right now. Especially by the Guadalupe River, a name that hearkens back to the “Wolf River.” Nature can be fierce; even the serene waters we gather around can morph into something wild after a storm. Wolves, for instance, hunt in groups, yet they also protect each other. Perhaps that’s a message here. The same river that took so much, now beckons the rest of us to stick together as a pack.
True conviction doesn’t show up in hashtags. It looks like casseroles, helping hands with chainsaws, an extra room to stay in, or just links to help ease someone’s burden. It allows a drenched photo album to dry in the sun. I try to listen more than I speak. When Jesus met Mary and Martha at the tomb, he wept before he even began to preach. Maybe somewhere along the way, we’ve lost sight of that order.
So, what can we do from a distance?
- Give: If you can, donate money, blood, bottled water, or even unused vacation days. Help will be needed for months, not just days.
- Go: If you’re able, student ministries, church groups, and skilled tradespeople will be essential beyond the cameras’ view.
- Guard: Protect the dignity of affected families. Share reliable donation links, not images of tragedy.
- Sad: Talk about your feelings. Let your children see adults who confront tragedy thoughtfully.
- And yes, pray: Not as a substitute for action, but as a genuine response. Prayer can be a lifeline for those struggling. It makes me think of that scripture: “Faith without works is dead.”
I understand the urge to shake my fist at the heavens. “Where was God?” That question naturally arises when disaster strikes. However, storms are not synonymous with punishment. God isn’t a puppet master orchestrating heartbreak. Leaving God in times of need is like abandoning the only lighthouse amid wild seas.
If prayer feels empty amidst sorrow, let action answer the cry.
I didn’t want to write this yet. My focus was on tucking my kids in and enjoying the holiday. But if writing this allows for genuine mourning without politicization, then let it serve that purpose. Take an hour to feel the sadness. Embrace your loved ones closely. Remind those around you that safety has no fixed address. Let the church demonstrate its significance beyond Sunday sermons.
As the sparklers from Independence Day are still cooling, perhaps the most patriotic act we can engage in is to revive genuine compassion. After all, mere words will not fill the empty spots left behind. Through our actions—give, sweat, be silent, and pray—we can bear each other’s burdens.
If you’re reading this in the comfort of a dry home, pause and think of the families with everything they own floating away.
Take a moment before you post.
Donate before you engage in discussion.
If “thoughts and prayers” still feel insufficient, add two more words: “Here it is.”
Then follow through.
