Making Sense of the Kerrville Flood
When tragedy strikes close to home, sometimes the only way through is inward.
It’s hard to describe the ache you feel when something awful happens in a place that once brought nothing but joy. Kerrville, Texas — nestled in the Hill Country with its winding roads, shady pecan trees, and summer camps — isn’t the kind of place you expect tragedy to unfold. But on July 4, 2025, it did.
A group of girls from a local camp were enjoying what was supposed to be a fun holiday along the Guadalupe River. It had rained the day before, and the ground was soft, but nobody imagined what would happen next. In just minutes, floodwaters surged through the area, sweeping away many campers and counselors before anyone had a chance to react. It was sudden, violent, and devastating.
When the news broke, it hit hard. The images on television and the accounts from first responders painted a heartbreaking picture: a once-innocent place transformed into a scene of chaos. Families rushed to Kerrville. Some waited in hospitals. Others received the kind of news that changes a life forever.
The Hill Country is no stranger to floods. The terrain makes it vulnerable, especially when rains come fast and heavy. But the tragedy at the girls’ camp wasn’t just another weather event. It shook the entire community — and the world.
In the days that followed, we’ve watched Kerrville do what small towns do best. People brought casseroles. Churches opened their doors without needing to be asked. Neighbors hugged neighbors. There was an unspoken agreement that no one would be allowed to carry their grief alone.
But grief is funny. It doesn’t always move in predictable ways. You can surround yourself with people and still feel utterly alone. We found ourselves thinking about those parents — the ones who had sent their daughters to a camp for laughter and s’mores and came back with nothing but silence. What could anyone possibly say to them?
That’s the thing about tragedy: it silences us. Not in a disrespectful way, but in a reverent one. Words fail. Logic fails. Even theology seems to stammer when a child is swept away by floodwaters.
And yet, that’s where many people turned — to their faith.
Kerrville’s churches held vigils, not to offer answers, but to offer presence. The pews filled with people who weren’t looking for reasons — they were looking for comfort. Prayers turned from recitations to raw pleas. Ministers stood at pulpits, not to explain, but to hold space.
I saw an interview with a woman whose granddaughter was one of the campers who survived. “She doesn’t talk about it much,” she said. “But she sleeps with her Bible now. She never used to do that.”
Faith in these moments isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a whisper. Sometimes it’s a mother lighting a candle in the quiet of her kitchen, asking God to protect what she still has left. Sometimes it’s a community gathering at a muddy riverbank, holding hands and singing through tears.
What we saw in Kerrville wasn’t a triumph of theology. It was a triumph of tenderness. People didn’t need to understand why the flood happened — they just needed to know they weren’t alone in it.
But of course, some asked the hard questions. Why would a loving God allow this? Why here? Why them?
And those questions are fair. Necessary, even. They’re part of the grieving process. Anyone who’s faced loss has asked them. But over time, those questions often shift. From “Why did this happen?” to “What now?” From “Where was God?” to “Where is God now?”
I don’t think there are easy answers that make the pain go away. But I do think there’s something powerful about allowing the pain to push us inward — not toward isolation, but toward introspection. Into the quiet places where faith either withers or grows roots.
A few days after the flood, I found myself rereading a passage from A Course in Miracles that says, “You are altogether irreplaceable in the Mind of God. No one else can fill your part in it, and while you leave your part of it empty, your eternal place merely waits for your return.” (T-9.VIII.10:1–2).
That line stopped me cold. It didn’t try to explain away loss. It didn’t offer platitudes. It simply reminded me that we are deeply loved. That no matter how lost we may feel in the aftermath of tragedy, we have not been forgotten. We are held in a love that doesn’t change with circumstance.
