I keep thinking about the rope. The one the girls at Camp Mystic held onto as the river rose around them. A simple rope—meant to guide them across a footbridge—became, in their final moments, a lifeline. A prayer. A thread between this world and the next.

In two weeks, my daughters—ages 12 and 8—will head off to Camp Kesem, held this year at Camp Pisgah near Brevard, North Carolina. It’s a camp for children who’ve had a parent with cancer. A place of healing, laughter, and belonging. Their counselors are college students from the Western Carolina University chapter—young people who give up part of their summer to create joy for kids who’ve known too much sorrow too soon. I’m grateful for it. And I’m uneasy.

Because the girls lost in Texas were the same age as mine. Because last fall, the mountains near Brevard were battered by Hurricane Helene. Because I know, too well, that life doesn’t always give warnings.

I’ve read the headlines. I’ve seen the photos of the Guadalupe River swollen and angry, of parents waiting for news no parent should ever have to hear. I’ve read about the counselors who sang hymns and held hands as the floodwaters came. And I’ve sat with the weight of it all—because it’s impossible not to imagine my daughters in their place.

How could this happen? Why them?

These are the questions that echo in the silence after tragedy. They don’t come with answers. But they come with weight. And maybe, in writing, I’m trying to carry a small piece of that weight with the families who now face a world forever changed.

There’s a kind of sacredness in summer camps. They’re places where kids become a little more themselves—where they sing off-key, stay up too late, and find courage in the dark. Camp is supposed to be safe. It’s supposed to be joy.

And yet, even there, the world breaks in.

I don’t know what to do with that. But I do know this: when I pack my daughters’ bags this year, I’ll do it with a heart full of prayer. I’ll trust the counselors. I’ll trust the weather. I’ll trust the rope.

Because parenting is, in the end, an act of letting go. And faith—real faith—is holding on to love even when the waters rise.

If you feel moved to help in the wake of this tragedy, please give thoughtfully. Sadly, in times of grief, some take advantage of others’ generosity. Be sure to donate through trusted organizations. The American Red Cross has opened shelters and reunification centers in the affected areas, and the Kerr County Flood Relief Fund is providing direct support to families impacted by the flooding.

For guidance on how to stay safe during flash floods, visit the National Weather Service Flood Safety page.