Held by Hope in the Unwelcome In-Between

Article by Christine Crawford

July 4th weekend was supposed to be a celebration. In a matter of minutes, my quiet Hill Country town became catastrophic front-page news.

Wednesday, July 2nd, felt like any other summer day in the Texas Hill Country. I walked my dogs Annie and Hero along our usual route and had lunch with Keri, a new ministry buddy, at Grape Juice—one of Kerrville's beloved local spots. Later, I met with my friend and real estate team leader, Lindsey, to begin drafting a landscape design plan for her front yard, hoping to complete the installation in time for her upcoming gathering for parents picking up their kids from Camp Mystic. After refereeing a friendly (but spirited) debate about the merits of wildflowers between Lindsey and her husband Phil, I took photos of their front facade, gave extra love to their three doggies (especially little Delilah), then drove back to my cabin on Turtle Creek with visions of native Texas flora dancing in my head.

Thursday, I worked on some real estate with Lindsey and published our Holy Shift newsletter. Then I snapped my laptop shut and spent the evening packing for my Fourth of July trip to Austin, looking forward to celebrating with dear friends. Thunder rumbled in the distance as I went to bed, so I did what I always do during storms—lugged Hero's bed into my room and scooped Annie into my bed (stormy nights always mean doggy slumber parties at my house).

After a noisy and restless night, I begrudgingly hauled myself out of bed and glanced at the weather notifications on my phone. Because minor flooding is just part of life here in the land of canyons and limestone, I sleepily swiped the warnings away on autopilot, barely registering them. Standing bleary-eyed at my coffee maker, my only concern was whether the dogs would get the car muddy and if Hero would act like a crackhead all day because I hadn't had a chance to wear him out before we left.

Then I opened my front door.

My usually sweet, tiny creek suddenly stretched from my yard and onto the neighboring property.

The Unholy Shift

Overnight, my usually placid creek had burst its banks and was raging along the bottom of my property. And when I checked with a neighbor, he confirmed what I was beginning to fear: all four creek crossings between us and the highway were impassable. We were trapped.

In that moment of surreal calm before the storm of realization hit, I managed to text my Austin friends with dark humor—something about spending America's birthday singing '90s country tunes to my dogs since we weren't going anywhere. But then the emergency alerts started blaring, helicopters appeared overhead, and my phone began buzzing with messages that made my blood run cold.

I opened a news app and saw what I wish—what everyone wishes—we would never have to know.

In the Aftermath

The details of that day—watching the water rise to within 50 feet of my cabin, packing the few belongings I could save if I needed to evacuate, briefly serving as an unofficial chaplain to parents of missing children—are images that still haunt me. I've sobbed at the sky more than once, "reminding" God (whose heart surely breaks more than anyone's) that it's not supposed to be this way.

But this isn't just my story. It's the story of an entire community that is forever changed.

Keri, the friend I'd had lunch with just days before, barely survived after punching through an attic wall and clinging to a rooftop gutter with six other adults (including her 83-year-old mother), two babies, and two dogs. Grape Juice, where we'd shared that last normal meal, closed to the public and became a meal prep station for emergency personnel.

Lindsey with her favorite nurses

Lindsey, whose landscape design I'd been excitedly planning for a Camp Mystic parents' party, was swept downriver trying to flee their flooded home, where she clung to a tree and dodged cars, trailers, and even a house before being rescued and hospitalized for 10 days because of a severe leg wound. Thankfully, her husband Phil and 15-year-old son also escaped, and her two daughters were among the Camp Mystic survivors. They lost their nearly-new house, however, along with all their vehicles, and two of their three dogs, including baby Delilah (insert ugly cry here). Yet they consider themselves among the lucky and blessed.

I've sobbed at the sky more than once, "reminding" God (whose heart surely breaks more than anyone's) that it's not supposed to be this way.

The Long Valley Forward

Most people have seen the footage by now. Many, like me, stopped watching to preserve their emotional health. You've prayed, wept, and checked on those you love. And many have asked: "How can we help?" Thank you for this. Truly. In the midst of this devastation, I'm reminded daily of something powerful: community matters. Prayer matters. Small acts of kindness create enormous ripples of hope.

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

The truth is, we need everything—prayer, financial support, and hands willing to help with the long work of rebuilding. If you'd like to support our community's recovery, here are concrete ways to make a difference:

• Disaster Relief Resources: My church has created a disaster relief page with links to the best places to give and get involved. We will be updating this page as needs change and opportunities arrive.

• Individual Family Funds: Specific GoFundMe accounts for families like Keri's and Lindsey's who lost everything.

• Ministry Support: As this flood will undoubtedly impact the real estate market, I've lost my primary source of income. So if you've ever considered supporting The Holy Shift ministry, now's a great time.

I'm reminded daily of something powerful: community matters. Prayer matters. Small acts of kindness create enormous ripples of hope.

I purposefully don't share the shocking photos. We've all seen enough.

The Grief that Keeps on Giving

This kind of devastation isn't one and done. Reminders are everywhere. Driving across the river or alongside its banks feels like driving onto an apocalyptic movie set. Our town is inundated with heavy machinery and first responders. Hearses crawl along Main Street with cars trailing behind, headlights glowing. Shock lines our neighbors' faces in restaurants and grocery store check-out lines. Green ribbon wraps our trees and telephone poles. The cumulative grief and collective trauma are ongoing, and that feels both holy and hopelessly overwhelming. And this flood wasn't my first encounter with grief that keeps giving.

In the last two years, I have carried tremendous grief over having to end my nearly 20-year marriage to a man I loved with my whole heart—a decision that also meant forfeiting my relationship with in-laws I adored and a handful of friends who misunderstood the dynamics. I also had to choose to walk away from the home I custom-designed, another home I lovingly restored, the church that partially enabled my ex's destructive behavior, the successful career I'd built for two decades, and the town I called home for 21 years. As a result, my health suffered, my hope tottered, and my sense of security evaporated. And—to add to what already sounds like a sad country song—my sweet old dog died.

In the six weeks leading up to the flood, the grief continued. I endured another personal loss, and eight tragedies struck vicariously close, impacting people I know and love. Most painful of all, after walking with me through two years of devastating loss, God seemingly went silent during that 6-week span—something that had never happened to me. Thankfully, the Lord's presence eventually filtered back through the fog of my pain as I finally calmed down enough to sense him again, and I managed to get my feet back under me...exactly two days before the flood hit and everything shifted again.

The cumulative grief and collective trauma are ongoing, and that feels both holy and hopelessly overwhelming.

Reconciling Grief with the Goodness of God

So you can maybe understand why, in the weeks following the flood, that one-sided, fist-shaking-at-the-sky argument I'd already been having with God escalated to a fever pitch. Over and over, I railed, "It's not supposed to be this way!" over the brokenness of this world. And over and over, his tender response came back: "I know. I know."

The LORD is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those whose spirits are crushed. Psalm 34:18

Ironically, I had been working through some psalms that specifically promised safety at the time. Though I stopped just short of calling God a liar, I muttered, more than once, "Nuh uh"—like a pouty toddler. Last week, the Lord's gentle words stunned and stilled me: "What if, in the in-between, safe doesn't mean safe?" He posed. "What if safe means held?"

In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety. Psalm 4:8

While my bottom lip is still protruding and I would very much appreciate experiencing actual safety, that revelation of being held has sustained me. The inconvenient truth is that we live, die, and suffer in the unwelcome in-between of God's perfect creation and eternal redemption. I grieve this. If I'm brutally honest, I downright resent it.

The paradoxes abound: Suffering is unavoidable and incomprehensible. But so is beauty. Death is something to be grieved, but it's also the pathway to abundant life. Joy is a fruit of the Spirit, yet it's also a posture we choose. And even in the depths of sorrow, I am still utterly convinced I will see the goodness of God in the land of the living. We all will.

The inconvenient truth is that we live, die, and suffer in the unwelcome in-between of God's perfect creation and eternal redemption. I grieve this. If I'm brutally honest, I downright resent it.

Reconciling all this compounded grief with the goodness of God has not been easy. I am still wrestling with the tension. Yet, knowing the Lord's heart breaks over the brokenness of this world, remembering He purposed it all for goodness and redemption, and trusting that He never leaves us amid our suffering has been my salve, my hope, my assurance. As Simon Peter reminds us, to whom else shall we go if not to Jesus?

Moving Forward with Hope

This flood stole homes, businesses, and, heartbreakingly, precious lives. But it cannot rob us of our spirit, our determination to help one another, or the truth that even when we don't feel safe from harm, we are held by a God who grieves with us.

We are #KerrvilleUnited. We are #HillCountryStrong. And we are held—not just by each other, but by the One who knows it's not supposed to be this way and promises that one day, it won't be. Until then, in the unwelcome in-between, we wrestle. We hope. And we cling to the God that holds us close.

The paradoxes abound: Suffering is unavoidable and incomprehensible. But so is beauty. Death is something to be grieved, but it's also the pathway to abundant life. Joy is a fruit of the Spirit, yet it's also a posture we choose. And even in the depths of sorrow, I am still utterly convinced I will see the goodness of God in the land of the living. We all will.

Recently, I noticed something beautiful happening—there's been a huge uptick in people listening to one particular past episode: Faithing Forward with Father Cliff Warner. When I saw those download numbers climbing, it reminded me that you, my listeners, have incredible instincts about what our community needs as we all collectively grieve and process this devastation. Recording that episode in the middle of my divorce was a balm to me, and seeing so many of you drawn back to this episode told me it was the perfect time to reshare it with everyone, especially my new subscribers who might have missed it the first time around. I also have a new episode on grief and grounding, so listen to that one as well.

More Scripture that has been encouraging me:

• The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. John 1:5

• You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book. Psalm 56:8

• And now, dear brothers and sisters, we want you to know what will happen to the believers who have died so you will not grieve like people who have no hope. 1 Thessalonians 4:13

• Jesus wept. John 11:35

• God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging. Psalm 46:1-3

about the author

Christine Crawford

Christine is a published poet and freelance writer, a podcaster, and an unabashed theology geek with a heart for the vulnerable. She holds 1.5 master's degrees from Dallas Theological Seminary and loves to help people explore God's upside-down kingdom through art, story, and humor. You'll find Christine on the porch of her creekside cabin with her two dogs (one sinner, one saint), savoring anything involving music, laughter, nature, or words.