In the heat of summer’s first week, the heart of the Texas Hill Country was redefined—not by the beauty of its landscape, but by a wall of water. In less than an hour on July 4th, the normally gentle Guadalupe River surged 26 feet, swallowing everything in its path—homes, camps, vehicles, lives—with astonishing speed and merciless force.

This was no ordinary flood: it was the deadliest inland deluge in our nation since 1976. Today, more than 120 lives have been claimed, at least 96 in Kerr County alone. Hundreds remain missing, including children from Camp Mystic, a sacred ground for girls and counselors who now are now only a memory for their grief-stricken families and friends.

There are names behind the numbers: Coach Reece and Paula Zunker—parents, mentors, taken along with their two young children—leaving behind a stunned Tivy High School community, mourning a family who will be sorely missed. Jane Ragsdale, director of a beloved girls’ camp, made a final call to save others—and perished herself—leaving a legacy of heroism. Julian Ryan, restaurant employee and devoted father, died trying to break his family’s way out and became another hero lost within the floodwaters.

These stories reverberate across towns—younger and older—where mothers and fathers await word of missing loved ones and continue their desperate search for their loved ones.

Yet in cracked driveways and muddy fields, something stronger is rising: human kindness. Retired special forces, community tow-truck owners, and volunteers are working around the clock—each wrench turned, each engine revved bringing families closer to answers.

I’ve read about how local churches serve as nerve centers for donations; breweries, H‑E‑B, Whataburger and food trucks feed first responders and survivors alike. Response in the Crossroads from churches and organizations with the heart and desire to help their fellow man has been swift, and it has been generous.

I’ve been told citizens of the City of Cuero banded together to donate $50,000 in supplies and $10,000 in gift cards. Wow, that’s impressive. If every city in the Crossroads—not to mention the state—can come together like that, it will help soften to the blow to Texas Hill Country area residents.

Folks, that’s called the heart of Christ, and that type of generosity can humble you. If we all had that type of heart … well, you get the picture.

I’m also impressed that most who have been told to wait to come into the area have shown the restraint to do so. First responders are still working to try to rescue people, and they need to be unencumbered. When the time is right, I know many, many people that will make the trek up there to do everything they can to help.

I’ve also read that people have set up grills offering burgers and laughter amid disaster’s shadow, as one volunteer put it: “A lot of them are really grateful.”. In a region known for independence and grit, this togetherness reaffirms a deeper truth—when lives are uprooted, compassion can plant new roots.

But this tragedy also casts a harsh light on our preparedness. Flash flood warnings were issued, but sirens didn’t wail soon enough. FEMA response lagged, arriving days later, while volunteers fanned out from day one . Increasingly, weather callouts are shouting a warning—to our infrastructure, our warnings systems, our flood-prone homes on river plains. No longer is this tragedy the exception—it is becoming, too often, the expected .

As the floodwaters recede and recovery begins—healing is measured in tears, nails, and mortar. Rebuilding lives means rebuilding trust: that homes are safer, warnings are louder, and federal response is faster.

It means honoring those who died by saving others through better preparation. It means nurturing the tiny compassionate acts—meals served at dusk, tow trucks pulling memories out of muck—that restore not just property, but faith.

To the families of the lost: this column offers no solace but solidarity. To the volunteers, responders, neighbors: your care speaks louder than the waters ever could. And to Texas Hill Country, that rugged landscape you’ve always called home—you’ll rise again through shared grief, shared labor, shared love.

Shawn A. Akers is the managing editor of the Victoria Advocate. He can be reached at shawn.akers@vicad.com.