Summer Floods in Texas
Wednesday, July 23, 2025
written by Kelly McGinn
For eleven years, my kids spent part of every summer at Camp Longhorn in the hill country of Texas—a place that has become almost sacred in our family’s story. It’s more than just camp; it’s where they grew up. From those early days of nervous goodbyes and name-tagged trunks to confident, joyful returns home, Camp Longhorn has shaped them into who they are. It’s where they learned independence, built lifelong friendships, discovered courage, and collected memories that are now part of their very identity.
Each year, as we packed their trunks with swimsuits, water bottles, and silly costumes, we knew they were heading off to a place of joy, laughter, and belonging. It was a gift—the kind of safe, happy childhood experience every parent dreams of giving their children. Over time, Camp Longhorn became woven into our family rhythms, a beloved constant in our summers.
But this year, everything about summer camp feels different. The horrific floods that tore through Texas hit far too close to home. While our family has aged out of summer camp, we grieve with those who were there. Twenty-seven girls from Camp Mystic were swept away, entire communities were submerged, homes were destroyed, and lives were shattered in an instant. And my thoughts keep turning to all the families who, like us, have spent years sending their kids to camp—to those kids who have lost their homes, their routines, and even their ability to return to camp this summer. And for the hardest part, those campers and counselors at Camp Mystic who didn’t get to return home. Those darling girls and their families are in my every thought and prayer.
The devastation from the floods is truly overwhelming. It isn’t just about lost property; it’s about lost stability, lost innocence. For children, especially those who have looked forward to camp all year, this kind of upheaval is especially painful. The floodwaters didn’t just sweep through streets and communities—they interrupted dreams, disrupted the safety net of normal life, and for many, robbed them of a beloved summer tradition. The summers in the Texas hill country will be heartbreakingly changed for a long time with the painful reminder of loss.
I can’t stop thinking about the Texas families who may be rebuilding from nothing right now. Families whose priorities have shifted from camp registrations and packing lists to FEMA paperwork, insurance claims, and finding a safe place to sleep. For them, the joyful chaos of camp prep has been replaced by heartbreak and uncertainty. And for their children, the loss may feel even deeper—a symbol of how much life has changed, all at once.
Natural disasters don’t just leave physical destruction; they leave emotional scars that linger long after the headlines fade. And when something so personal, so cherished as summer camp, becomes part of that loss, the impact runs deep. With this summer cut short, my heart aches for those campers whose trunks may never be packed—for whom the songs, the traditions, the campfire laughter are now just a memory, too far out of reach.
This year, I find myself holding two truths at once. I am deeply grateful that my kids had the gift of summer camp in Texas at Camp Longhorn. But I also carry a heavy sense of sorrow for the families who cannot say the same. Joy and grief are sitting side by side in my heart.
What gives me hope, though, is the spirit of summer camp itself—the community, the resilience, the kindness that lives in places like the Texas hill country. I believe that same spirit will help rebuild what was lost. Camp friends will rally. Camp families will support one another. And over time, the joy will return—maybe changed, maybe scarred, but not gone.
As a parent, I will never take the gift of camp for granted. And as a human being, I will hold space for those still in the thick of recovery. This summer, as I give thanks for the memories we had, I’ll be thinking of all the others who now had their lives changed forever.