My two years in Texas were deeply formative—there’s something enduring about the Lone Star State. The people. The pride. The resilience. I’m praying hard for everyone affected by the devastating flooding, including the families in Beaumont. That town, like so many across Texas, holds special memories and pieces of our hearts.
For years, I’ve watched my Texas friends send their kids off to summer camp—sharing photos of sleepy-eyed morning drop-offs and muddy, sun-soaked pickups. Their children’s adventures are wrapped in joy, growth, and a kind of wild magic. My friends speak of their own camp days with fondness and fierceness, the kind of memory that lives deep in your bones. It always made me smile—how tradition, trust, and childhood freedom danced together in the Texas heat.
I see the young faces of the children, and of the teens, and I think about the ordinary excitement they must have felt just days ago—packing bags, hugging parents goodbye, bracing for a summer of laughter and independence. I think about the trust we place in the world when we let our children go—on a bus, into a cabin, into the current of growing up.
I was reading about Mary Grace Baker, a rising third grader from Beaumont who was lost in the flood. I have a Mary too—exactly the same age. Oh, how that shakes my soul. I think of her mama, and all that love, and the weight of that grief—how it must sit in her chest like stone, how it must ache in every breath. It’s the kind of sorrow that rearranges a person. That makes the world feel quieter, crueler, and forever changed. And still, I believe love outlives tragedy. I believe Mary Grace’s light lingers—in the laughter she gave, the joy she carried, and the way strangers now whisper her name in prayer.
And I think about the other stories, too—the ones that belonged to the young adults. College-aged, barely out of childhood themselves, guiding and mentoring campers while still navigating their own coming-of-age. Many of them on the cusp of senior year or freshly launched into post-grad life. Some were just beginning to imagine careers, others were pausing between semesters, answering a calling to lead, to serve, to spend one more summer in a place that felt like home. Their stories matter just as deeply. Their losses are no less profound.
I was reading about Chloe Childress from Houston, who was set to attend the University of Texas this fall. She was counseling a cabin where the loss of life was especially heavy. I keep thinking about her parents—the roller coaster they must be riding, from the joy of college acceptance and graduation to the unthinkable grief of sudden loss. One moment they were likely planning dorm shopping trips and savoring lasts: the last summer at home, the last family dinner before move-in day. Now they find themselves navigating memorials instead of milestones. The shift from celebratory to commemorative is unthinkable. And yet, somehow, they endure. And yet, while gone, Chloe’s influence will remain—a lasting light that continues to inspire and uplift all who knew her.
There’s something sacred about that stretch of life—standing at the edge of what comes next. Full of possibility. Suspended in that brief, bright time between the shelter of childhood and the stretch of adulthood. Often spent at river retreats or family places, where worries feel far off and futures burn bright. It’s a universal memory for so many—carefree days on the water shadowed gently by the weight of what’s to come.
I tend to think of my time in Texas as some of the most profound. I broke out of my Northeastern shell and learned, through Southeast Texas culture, how to embrace the beauty of the bayou—and the deep roots of connection and care. It changed me.
And I think often about the part of Texas that left the deepest impression on me: the faith. It’s lived aloud. Worn on T-shirts and church signs. Spoken at stoplights and supper tables. As a Northerner, I grew up in a culture where faith was more reserved—quiet, private, even cautious. It’s easy to scoff at what feels like spectacle when you’ve been taught to keep belief behind closed doors. But there’s something to be said for the boldness Texans carry when they talk about Jesus. It’s not performative. It’s woven into their identity. And in the face of this kind of grief, I understand it better now. Because when the waters rise, you don’t want subtle. You want something sure. Something louder than the heartbreak. Something steady to cling to.
That’s why this tragedy feels so close. The loss of young life shakes something primal in all of us. We feel it in our bones. In the quiet moments with our own children. It’s unbearable to imagine, yet impossible not to. We carry these families in our hearts as if they were our own—because in a way, they are.
Sending love and strength to all who are hurting. You are not alone.
God of comfort, meet us in this sorrow.
Hold the grieving, guide the searchers, and bring peace to every aching heart.
For those lost, for those waiting, for those who can’t stop crying—
Be near. Be steady. Be light in this darkness.
Even when the waters turn dark, faith lights the way, guiding us through the storm toward brighter days and renewed hope.
The Forty Files 