When the Waters Rise: Trust, Tragedy & the Places That Make Us
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Dear Reader, Like many of you, I’ve been sitting with the heartbreaking news out of Texas. More than 100 lives lost along the river, including campers and counselors swept away in flash floods. Camp Mystic was where children were meant to be laughing, forming friendships, and singing songs under the stars—a place that was supposed to be a respite from the news cycle, not part of it. I can’t stop thinking about them… because I was them. From age 10 to 22, summer camp in Central Texas and Mississippi was the most formative experience of my youth. It was the place I felt most alive. Most free. Camp was where I first understood the meaning of community—not built on status, but on shared breath and presence. It was where I learned to feel God—not through sermons, but through sunsets, song sessions, and whispering late into the night with friends who saw the real me. It was where I took off the masks and learned to live from the inside out. Camp gave me the blueprint for everything I now teach and live: Connection. So when tragedy strikes in a place like that, it doesn’t just break my heart—it shakes the ground under my feet. Because those places are supposed to be untouchable. And now… they're also places of grief. When sacred ground becomes the site of unbearable loss, it’s hard to know what to do. Or how to pray. In moments like this, I come back to a truth I literally carry on my skin. A quote from Rabbi Bahya ibn Pekuda (11th/12th c. Spain): Leslie and I have matching tattoos on our forearms with this phrase—a reminder we both chose to carry and refer to often. It’s close to the surface, where we can see it in moments like this. Not because trust comes easily, but because we both need the reminder. This kind of trust doesn’t bypass grief. It means I choose to stay open. That’s one of the deepest lessons camp gave me: We hold each other through it all. Through tears and laughter. We sing, even when our voices shake. So today, if your heart feels heavy… Pause. Place your hand on your heart. Then ask yourself: What small act of love can I offer today? Because the world needs more of us fully present, tender, and real—just like camp taught me to be. With blessings, hope, and trust, |