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.