In the news: “Twenty-seven girls attending Camp Mystic in Kerr County are missing following intense flooding in Central Texas, officials said on Saturday. The camp for girls has two sites less than a quarter mile apart near Hunt, Texas. The missing girls are believed to have been staying at the Guadalupe River site.”
We see immediately the juxtaposition.
The girls were at a Christian camp, near a river named for an apparition, not too far south, in Mexico, of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
Now, tragedy—and the need for urgent prayer. The families are devastated. Total dead along the river from the flash flood: at least 80. “I urge every Texan to join me in prayer this Sunday—for the lives lost, for those still missing, for the recovery of our communities, and for the safety of those on the front lines,” the governor said in a statement.
Speaking in English at the conclusion of the Angelus on Sunday, Pope Leo offered his sincere condolences “to all the families who have lost loved ones—in particular their daughters who were at summer camp—in the disaster caused by the flooding of the Guadalupe River in Texas in the United States. We pray for them.”
The name Mystic conveys the almost magical quality of this environment—where children are meant to experience awe, peace, and connection with nature.
A River With Roots
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The Guadalupe River, stretching some 230 miles from the Hill Country near Kerrville to the Gulf Coast at San Antonio Bay, is more than a body of water—it’s a cultural landmark, a natural wonder, and an emotional touchstone for generations of Texans.
Long before tubing outfits and weekend getaways made the Guadalupe a destination, it was a lifeline. Indigenous tribes such as the Tonkawa and Comanche relied on its clear spring-fed waters. In 1689, Spanish explorer Alonso de León christened it “Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe,” honoring the Virgin Mary. As German settlers arrived in the 19th century, towns like New Braunfels and Seguin sprang up along its course, tapping into the river for drinking water, irrigation, and community identity.
Today, the river is still an artery of survival—ecologically, economically, and spiritually. It may not roar like the Mississippi or carve canyons like the Colorado, but it hums with life in its own steady way, a habitat for the rare Guadalupe bass, herons and egrets, and whitetail deer that drink from its edges. Towering bald cypress trees grip the banks with tangled roots, giving the riverbanks the appearance of something out of an ancient manuscript.
Fed by the Edwards Aquifer, the Guadalupe runs clean and cold—especially below Canyon Lake, where its tailwaters make it one of the only rivers in Texas to support year-round trout fishing. It also provides vital drinking water and flood control for nearby communities, forming a quiet but essential backbone of the Hill Country’s ecosystem. There is a growing understanding that what’s at stake isn’t just a pretty river, but a vital, irreplaceable ecosystem—and a piece of Texas’s soul.
It’s a reminder that sometimes the most powerful forces don’t shout—they whisper.
Or anyway, usually they whisper.
This past weekend, on the Fourth, it roared like no other, rising twenty-nine feet in forty-five minutes without warning.
Another sign of the times.
Several of the missing girls were staying in the low-lying cabins known as the “Flats,” a section for junior and intermediate campers located less than 500 feet from the riverbank. Senior campers were housed in nine cabins situated farther from the water, in an area of the camp referred to as “Senior Hill.”
Notes The New York Times: “Camp Mystic has been run by the same family over generations since the 1930s, and some of its buildings have been standing since the 1920s. According to a camp brochure, its cabins are built out of native stone.”
The water is now settling. But devastation remains. When it’s over—when they find the poor girls and others missing—normalcy will attempt to return. And the Guadalupe River, timeless and tenacious, will once more be whispering.