07/11/2025
It feels heavy in my chest—
doing the little things,
the ordinary things.
Packing snacks, tying shoes,
listening to my kids laugh in the backseat
as the sun pours through the windows.
And yet somewhere just hours away,
the world has stopped.
Somewhere, a mother is frozen in time,
her heart pounding in her ears,
begging for news that won’t break her.
A mother who doesn't know
if her daughter will walk through the door again.
And maybe it hits even harder
because I have daughters too—
around the same age as the girls at camp.
They would’ve been laughing the same way,
packing the same swimsuits,
braiding each other’s hair,
singing songs under the stars.
The what-ifs crawl into my throat.
Because it could’ve been us.
It could’ve been them.
I think about that as I brush my daughter’s hair,
as I tuck her in under the covers,
as I tell her “I love you” for the fifth time in one night.
It feels unfair—how one home can be filled with light,
while another sits in the shadow of fear.
This flood didn’t just bring water.
It brought heartbreak.
It swept away more than land—
it took peace,
it took safety,
it left mothers clutching to hope
and aching for answers.
And I don’t know what to do
with the weight of that grief
when my hands are still full
of living children and loud mornings.
So I hold them tighter.
I watch them longer.
I let the little things go.
Because somewhere nearby,
a mother is praying to just have one more ordinary moment.
I whisper the names of those girls like a prayer,
I look toward the skies and ask God
to wrap His arms around the ones still waiting,
still pleading,
still believing.
Because while I sit here in the warmth of what I have,
there are mothers
just a drive away
sitting in the cold ache of what they might lose.
And I feel it all—
the gratitude,
the guilt,
the grief
on behalf of mothers
who didn’t get to tuck their daughters in tonight.
