A River of Shared Tears

Some of my happiest childhood memories are from time spent on the Guadalupe River. Every summer, our family would load into my Mom’s station wagon and make the 3 hour drive from Houston to Seguin – more specifically Lake McQueeny – to spend a few days at the Lake Breeze Ski Lodge. My late father hated stopping along the way, but I always needed to. “Why didn’t you go before we left?” he’d ask annoyed. My four brothers would snicker. “I did!” I’d say, “I swear, I did. I just have to go again.”

Once there, the surroundings were idyllic. The lodge itself wasn’t great – in fact, years later when I started taking my own children, they couldn’t believe I had described it with such fondness. “Dad, it’s a cheap motel!” They weren’t wrong, but it was the rest of the setting that made the place so special: The open air patio where we had all our meals – including the famed Lake McQueeny Special (aka Fritos corn chips with homemade chili on top), accompanied by a Big Red soda (essentially liquid bubble gum); the blue skies and warm sun; the open lake with its cool, clean water; the floating green lily pads along the shore; the sound, smell and speed of the racing ski boat; and the enchanting beauty and calm of the canopied Guadalupe. “Can we go up the river?” we’d always ask the driver. “The water’s so smooth up there.”

We wouldn’t stay more than 2 or 3 days, and we wouldn’t go more than once or twice a summer, but the joy was profound and the impression indelible. So much so that even just passing the exit on I-10 when driving to other places as an adult made me nostalgic. So much so that when I had children of my own, I knew I had to make that place, that river, part of their lives too.

* * *

The first summer camps I attended were in Texas. But my daughter Juliet was braver – at 8 years old, she went out of state immediately. And from the beginning, it’s been like heaven for her. She not only loves escaping the suffocating heat and humidity of our concrete city, she also loves escaping the addictive pressure of a teenager’s phone and its attendant social media morass. At camp, she has discovered unparalleled happiness in the natural beauty of the outdoors, in the simplicity of silly games and physical activity, and in the comradery of deep social connections. She’s also grown immensely. This past June, as we were packing her duffels, she explained again what I’m sure she had told me before:

“I can’t believe this will be my last year, I’m already sad and it hasn’t even started! But as a TM, we lead the color war cheers and activities – so I’ll definitely need more outfits, especially for July 4th.” And sure enough, several weeks later on Independence Day, my “Campanion” photo app posted a picture of Juliet surrounded by friends, each decked out in red, white and blue, each with the most ebullient smile. That same day, closer to home, the Guadalupe surged.

* * *

I cannot imagine the terror flood victims must have experienced, especially those young girls at Camp Mystic. Nor can I imagine the pain so many grieving families are still experiencing. Though not directly impacted, I’ve been unable to stop reading and watching the news. I wasn’t at all surprised when questions soon turned to who knew what and when, who could or should have done something differently, and why it happened the way it did. Unimaginable hurt often morphs into anger and therefore wants answers. Desperately so.

***

This past week, on a golf trip with Juliet’s twin brother, Nathaniel and I played the River Course in Koehler, Wisconsin. In the midst of a quintessentially joyful father-son experience, I stopped and stared at the slow-moving stream along the grassy fairway. There was something about it – the color, the muddy bank, the over-hanging trees – that reminded me of the Guadalupe. Without saying much, I approached Nathaniel and hugged him.

Mystic was a Christian camp, I’m Jewish. But no matter. The Rabbis taught that saving a single life is like saving the world. Meaning, of course, that losing one life is the same calculus. It’s the world. And for a parent who loses a child, that’s especially true.

At this time of seemingly unending polarization and divisiveness, when so many of us choose sides based on affiliations related to race, religion, nationality, ethnicity and politics, maybe it’s time we stop. Instead, perhaps we realize that those waters, which could have been any waters, are our shared humanity.