In the early-morning hours of July 4, the Hill Country experienced a devastating flood of unimaginable proportions that took the lives of more than 135 people.
The losses are beyond comprehension. Everyone experienced, even if indirectly, the pain of loss and the ache of failed hope.
Among the victims are 24 little girls who were having the time of their lives at summer camp. I know because I was a little girl at Camp Mystic in 1964, and I returned each summer as a counselor and program director until 1979.
In those hills and along the Guadalupe River, I learned, as many have, of the love of God and the preciousness of friendship. I learned a reverence for nature and about who I was as a person. We played, prayed, grew and learned without a thought of the outside world.
The beautiful landscape came to feel like an extension of my body, one that feels now like an amputation.
As I gather with loved ones this month, my mind will be with the friends I lost in the flood, but I’ll also be thinking of the countless stories of survival, selflessness, courage, bravery and resilience that give us all cause to be thankful.
In the days and hours following the 34-foot rise on the Guadalupe River, thousands of emergency responders from at least 26 states and Mexico, including some as far away as North Dakota and Minnesota, rushed to assist in search and rescue operations. More than 850 survivors were rescued from trees, rooftops and fast-moving floodwaters.
Of course, locals also heeded the call to action, and soon anyone with a bulldozer, tractor, backhoe, excavator or horse trailer headed to the flood zone.
The temperamental nature of the river made heroes out of ordinary people who struggled to survive.
One woman, caught in the attic of a once-peaceful riverside hotel, was forced out through a small window onto the roof. From there, she caught sight of a woman and her dog being swept away. She reached out, grabbed the woman by the arm and brought them to safety.
Not far downriver, Camp Mystic’s teenage counselors walked scared campers through rushing water toward safety.
Long after the media and the searchers have left, we’re still living with and among the horrors of this tragedy and its effects on our community.
So many Thanksgiving gatherings will never be the same. There will be empty chairs, empty tables.
Hold close the people around you. And cherish the stories of those willing to assist in restoring and rebuilding and mending the brokenhearted. For them, I’m thankful.
