Faith in the Flood: What Texas Took From Us

There’s a photo going around. A sheriff’s deputy, standing by the water, hand covering his face. You don’t need a caption. You don’t need to know his name. That image speaks for all of us.

We’ve been there.

It’s the weight that comes after the adrenaline wears off. After rescue turns to recovery. After you realize this time, you couldn’t save them.

What happened in Texas was fast. Violent. Water rose where it never had before. Roads washed out. Homes filled in minutes. RVs with sleeping families swept away. And at a summer camp in Hill Country, children were caught in it.

They came to sing, to play, to laugh with friends. You can almost hear their voices in the fields. Some packed Bibles and flashlights. Some had never been to church but felt something stirring in that place.

When the flood came, there wasn’t time. Some were rescued. Others were lost. Some are still missing. Search and rescue efforts continue. Counselors did everything they could. Ordinary people were thrown into extraordinary moments. Kids waited for hours in rafters, praying someone would come. Hollywood couldn’t have written a script this gut-punching. But it was real.

As first responders, we’re trained to go in. To move fast. To work the problem. But no amount of training prepares you for scenes like this.

The public sees the badge, the uniform, the mission. They don’t always see what we carry. The mud in our boots long after the work is done. The names we remember when no one else does. The quiet prayers we say over children we couldn’t bring home.

And the questions. We carry those too.

Where was God? Why these kids? Why now?

I’ve asked those questions. Not out of anger. Out of heartbreak.

I don’t have answers. But I’ve stood close enough to both good and evil to know—there has to be more. I’ve seen things no one should see. I’ve seen people risk everything for strangers. I’ve seen hate. And I’ve seen love fight harder.

That’s why I still believe. Not because it’s easy. But because when you’ve been this close to the edge, you know something greater is holding the line.

I believe God was there. In the water. In the arms that pulled children from cabins. In the hands that covered them with blankets. In the eyes of the trooper who stood silent on the shore.

Faith doesn’t take the pain away. But it gives it somewhere to land.

Texas lost more than buildings. Families were lost. Generations, in some cases. The kind of pain that stays. It settles into a town and becomes part of it.

We were reminded how fragile life is. And how fierce love can be when it shows up in a fire engine, an ambulance, or a patrol car.

Still, we go back out. Because love doesn’t walk away when it gets hard. It shows up with silence, presence, and grief that doesn’t need explaining.

Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.

We saw it in Texas. We feel it still. And we live it, one call at a time.

Jason Pack is a retired FBI Supervisory Special Agent, former FBI SWAT medic, and former FEMA External Affairs Officer. He has served as a first responder for more than 30 years.

AP Photo.

What the Diddy Case Got Wrong About Sex Trafficking Victims

After years working violent crimes against children and adult human trafficking, and serving on the FBI’s Child Abduction Rapid Deployment Team, I learned a hard truth. Most people still do not understand how sex trafficking really works.

The verdict in the Sean “Diddy” Combs case created a wave of headlines and social media posts. I am less focused on the verdict itself and more on the public attention it brought to trafficking. This crime often hides in plain sight, and most people never see how it truly unfolds.

During my time recovering kids from streets, hotel rooms, and online exploitation cases, only one child ever ran into our arms like you see in movies. That moment came a few weeks after we rescued her. She was five. She had been exploited online by a relative. When things calmed down, she colored a dinosaur page and wrote, “To: Jason. Thanks,” then signed her name. The handwriting was crooked, the way a young child writes. It remains one of the purest gestures of gratitude I have ever received. I still have that page.

Most recoveries are not like that. Many victims fight the very people trying to help them. They have heard empty promises before. “We are here to help” sounds like another line. Some are angry. Some run. Some go back to the person hurting them because that is the world they know.

There are cases where the victim also has an active warrant. Maybe it came from a missed court date or a minor crime connected to their exploitation. Officers usually do not arrest them for whatever happened that day, especially when it is clear they are being trafficked. But old warrants still exist. Helping the victim often means dealing with those issues as well. From their point of view, help has never looked like a patrol car or a holding cell. No wonder they doubt us at first.

Ask anyone who has worked these cases and they will tell you the same thing. You often recover the same victim more than once. Then one day something changes. After seeing the same faces again and again, a victim will look at you and ask, “Why do you keep coming back?” That is the moment you work toward. That is when they start to believe you might actually care.

People also misunderstand how trafficking begins. It is rarely a stranger in a van or someone lurking near a playground. True stranger abductions are rare. That is why they make national news. Trafficking usually starts with someone the victim knows. Someone who pretends to care. Someone who gains control slowly, through emotional and psychological manipulation.

Even when a case reaches court, the challenges continue. Victims can be difficult witnesses. Trauma does not disappear when a trial date arrives. Some victims are scared or confused. Some lie to protect their trafficker. Some shut down when questioned. In heartbreaking situations, victims who were once exploited become part of the recruiting process for the trafficker. That makes prosecutors pause. It is hard to put someone on the stand when they have been both a victim and a participant under pressure.

I remember one case where the victim’s story changed several times after we recovered her. Her trauma was real, but her fear made her an uncertain witness. I was not perfect either. I was still learning. The only charge we could prove was a Mann Act violation. It gave us something solid, but the prosecutor would not move forward because she kept adjusting her story. I was frustrated, but traffickers count on exactly that. They know fear and trauma can weaken a case.

That is why the Mann Act remains so important. Even when proving force or coercion is difficult, the Mann Act allows law enforcement to act when a victim is transported across state lines for illegal purposes. It gives investigators a starting point and a way to begin pulling apart what is really happening. It is not a perfect solution, but sometimes it is the only tool that gets the victim out of the cycle.

I have worked with some of the finest agents, officers, and deputies in the country. These men and women show up day after day, knowing the emotional cost. They do it because they care about the victims and want to hold traffickers accountable.

The verdict in this case is finished. The media will move on. But tonight there are still kids in hotel rooms, backseats of cars, or unsafe homes who need help. For those of us who have seen trafficking up close, the work continues long after the headlines fade.

Jason Pack is a retired Supervisory Special Agent, former team leader of the FBI Child Abduction Rapid Deployment Team and FBI Violent Crimes Against Children Agent. He is also the CEO of Media Rep Global Strategies.