Presence in the Mud

The devastation along the Guadalupe River this weekend is hard to put into words. Entire homes swept away. Families torn apart. Dozens of lives lost—and still, dozens more unaccounted for.

The weight of it all was everywhere. In the faces of those searching. In the silence between conversations. In the thick mud left behind by a river that surged without warning, swallowing campsites, RV parks, and neighborhoods in minutes. The smell of dirty, muddy river water hung in the hot, humid air. And through it all, people kept showing up—some local, many not. Some knew someone missing. Others just knew in their hearts they had to be there. That God had put this in front of them. As the tragedy unfolded, our team from Feed the Need Missions felt that same pull. We didn’t know what we’d be walking into. We just knew we needed to go.

A small crew mobilized early Saturday—volunteers who serve faithfully with us week in and week out, along with others who were ready to step in. We loaded up a trailer with supplies and made our way into the Hill Country, hoping to listen and serve however we could.

In the surrounding towns of Kerrville and Ingram, response teams and volunteers were everywhere—search crews, donated supplies, people helping in any way they could. But downstream, in the small community of Center Point, we heard there was still a need. The fire department had been underwater the day before, buried in nearly eight feet of floodwaters. Power was still out in parts of the area. The weight of what had happened—and what still hadn’t been uncovered—was crushing. We arrived to find the department caked in mud. Volunteers were power-washing the floors, organizing supplies, and preparing for another long night. The building had become a kind of base camp—muddy, chaotic, but full of people doing their best to bring order to heartbreak.

So we set up.

We weren’t sure what kind of role we’d play. We had food and a willing crew. But the need felt less about the meal itself and more about simply being there. The ministry of presence.

Throughout the day, we met people from all over. Some had been searching the riverbanks since sunrise. Others were coordinating cleanup, logistics, and communication. The emotional toll was written all over their faces—exhaustion, despair, shock. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a kind of quiet, heavy numbness. Right out in front of where we served, search crews recovered multiple bodies throughout the day. That reality never left the air. Even as more volunteers arrived to help, there was a shared understanding that another loss might be discovered at any moment. And often was. These weren’t just names or numbers. They were mothers, fathers, children—some of whom had come to this area for a weekend of rest and celebration.

Many of those still missing weren’t even from this part of Texas. That added to the confusion and the helplessness. People didn’t know exactly who they were searching for. But they kept going. Wading through mud. Soaked in sweat. Taking food only when someone placed it in their hands.

As the dinner hour came around, our role became clearer. The smell of onions on the griddle drifted through the air. People who hadn’t realized they were hungry started to gather. One man said the smell was calling his name. Another quietly admitted he hadn’t eaten all day. The food was simple—burgers, chips, drinks—but something about it changed the atmosphere.

Tables were set out. People sat. They talked. Or didn’t. Some just needed a break. Others needed prayer. Many just needed to know someone saw them. Harry and Sheila, helping organize the cleanup and coordination efforts for the fire department, were a quiet force all day. Harry’s brother, the fire chief, was leading search crews while they worked in the background—sorting donations, directing volunteers, keeping the base running. Late in the evening, they circled back around. Their gratitude wasn’t about the food—it was about the presence. The willingness to just show up and be there.

As night fell, people kept working. Volunteers swept floors, restocked tables, and began preparing for the next day. No one really talked about being tired, though everyone was. The need was just too real. The loss too close.

We didn’t serve thousands of meals. We didn’t fix the heartache. But we were there. And sometimes, that’s what matters most.

Being present in the mud.

In the grief.

In the moments when people can’t find words.

We’re thankful for everyone who helped make that possible—for those who went, those who prayed, those who supported from afar. There’s more work ahead. There are still people missing. Families shattered. Hearts broken. But we know the same God who moved us to show up is still moving in the middle of the pain.

And we’ll continue to be available. Because sometimes the most powerful thing we can offer isn’t a plan. It’s presence.