How to help Texans affected by the July 4 floods

I usually write a recap of The Weekend in Sports on Monday mornings. But the fact my son and I were watching the Canine Air Retrieve National Championship on ESPN yesterday tells you just how sparse the sports slate is right now. Furthermore, it just feels trivial to spend too much emotional energy on all of that right now.

Inside Texas is pledging $10,000 to support those impacted by the tragic flooding in the Texas Hill Country during the July 4 weekend.

Looking for ways to help? Find resources here: https://t.co/jwwDRc8xCv pic.twitter.com/XFbFQouePH

— Inside Texas (@InsideTexas) July 7, 2025

Want to help? Here are a few notable options.

• The Community Foundation of the Texas Hill Country has established a Kerr County Flood Relief Fund that can be found here. The Community Foundation – a 501(c)(3) public charity serving the Texas Hill Country – will direct funds to vetted organizations providing rescue, relief, and recovery efforts as well as flood assistance. The Fund will support the communities of Hunt, Ingram, Kerrville, Center Point, and Comfort. All donations are tax-deductible, and you will receive a receipt for your gift.

• Texas Search and Rescue is a non-profit dedicated to helping local officials find survivors and provide supplies, food, and water to those in affected communities. Their donation site can be found here.

• The Salvation Army is accepting donations here.

• KENS5 in San Antonio has more ways to help here.

The flooding in the Hill Country is an unimaginable tragedy. As of Monday morning, 82 lives have been claimed, 27 from Camp Mystic alone. This has hit closer to home than most news ever will. The sweet faces of the lives which have been lost aren’t just distant pictures on a screen. They’re the children of colleagues, neighbors, friends, and family. They are a year older than my oldest. My sister grew up at Camp Mystic, my niece as well. She was there as recently as two summers ago and knew the counselors of the cabin who lost so many sweet young girls. For many Texans, it takes much less than six degrees of separation to be connected to a victim of this flood. But I have to remind myself, as many do, that I am still removed from this situation.

I feel guilty saying there’s relief there. It’s a human emotion. A feeling of thankfulness in your chest which says something to the effect of “I’m glad that’s not me.” Even though you’d do anything to turn back the wheel of time or reverse what’s happened, I still hope I never know this feeling. But the proximity of what’s happened can make you feel like it’s a narrowly avoided wreck or lightning strike. It shows you that these things aren’t reserved for far-off countries or places on the globe where you’ll never visit. Those kids and people look like my kids, they look like me. They were swept away in a flood from a place in the state where we love to visit, a part of the state that’s special to so many. From a camp that’s cherished by multiple generations. So what do I do? What is my role as a Texan, a neighbor, a writer, a parent?

It’s hard to know what to do. It’s almost impossible to know what to think. If you have faith, the event can cause you to both lean in and out. It brings about questions and doubt right alongside the prayers. There’s a desire to act, to volunteer. The internet makes donating easier than ever before.

As a parent, it cuts deep. My wife likes to say already that loving your kids can feel like walking through life with an exposed wound. This just opens it further. There are so many posts which say something like “I’m holding my kids extra close tonight.” I know I said something similar after Uvalde. I also won’t lie and admit this event has caused me to catch myself on multiple occasions over the last few days to let bedtime go a little longer, let a baseball game in the backyard contain a few more pitches, and to put my freaking phone away when my children want to play a goofy game. But even writing that is privileged, it’s lucky, an acknowledgment that in this moment my life has been spared from such an incomprehensible pain.

This whole thing lays the real world bare. Reality is exposed to a harsh degree. It shows me if I am healthy, if my family is safe, then life really is okay. It’s actually much better than that.

We love nature because we are from it. We were born from its dust. Humans cherish time in the sun, in the fresh air, immersed in the cool water. But the nature which we love can also turn in a split second, in the form of water rising 30 feet in 45 minutes after a torrential downpour. We love nature for its wildness, but are left heartbroken at its reminder it doesn’t love us back. This reminds us it’s uncontrollable and untamable. We can be swept away by its power in an instant.

So again, what do we do as those who haven’t had to endure this tragedy ourselves? What can we do? What should I do?

Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn: Romans 12:15.

This should be a reminder to be brave, to have courage. To fight for the lives of those who need saving. Like Mystic’s camp director Dick Eastland did when he was attempting to rescue girls from the flood which consumed the camp he and his family had devoted their lives to.

I will do those things. But life brings about the paradox that even amidst tragedy, the world continues. Work emails, daily tasks, phone calls where you’re put on hold with customer service. When you’re shown how fast your world can turn, you wish you could do away with all of that. So, in the parts of my own life which are untouched by pain, I will focus on the things that are communal. Especially when I get to pass the good things down to the next generation. Because when you lose someone, those are the moments you wish you had back. You don’t wish life would go back to normal so you could email with a clear conscience. You miss the sharing of meals, the telling of stories, the time in the outdoors, the celebration after a big touchdown.

So even though it’s terrifying, I’ll lean into the things which I’ll miss when they’re gone.