For Wilshire Baptist Church
Last October, LeAnn and I went to a wedding in the Hill Country and got lost. But there’s different levels of lost – some that simply frustrate, and some that leave you speechless.
The wedding was at Camp Waldemar, one of the historic camps we’ve been hearing about on the news since the devastating floods of July 4th. Driving to a pre-wedding reception the night before, we approached the little town of Hunt but made a wrong turn. Cell power was weak but our blue dot led us southwest through the darkness down a winding highway that passed guest lodges and camps including Camp Mystic. We crossed the Guadalupe River a half dozen times with some of the crossings marked by flood gauges, warning lights and signs that read, “Road May Flood.” It was a clear night so no worries about that.
Still, there was tension in the air, because while it seemed Camp Waldemar would be on this road with all the other camps and the map showing it on this road, it wasn’t. After driving too far and too long, we turned around and went back past all the camps that weren’t Waldemar, including Mystic, until we were back at Hunt. There, we checked the map again and found the correct highway, and after passing more camps and crossing the river several more times, we reached Camp Waldemar a little late but still in time for the party. We learned later the two roads followed the north and south branches of the river so maybe that’s why the map app was confused.
The wedding was the next evening, so we decided to spend the day at Lost Maples State Park just 35 miles away. It was daylight and we were surprised to find the route from our lodging took us back down what had been the wrong road from the previous night. We passed all the camps again, including Camp Mystic, and crossed the river many times again. On several stretches that we couldn’t see in the dark the previous night, the highway and river ran side-by-side, and we commented on how beautiful it was and how it must be teeming with kids and families during the summer.
We’d been to Lost Maples once before, and despite its name, we knew how to get there. The only loss we felt was the maples weren’t in spectacular color as they had been on our last visit. Still, we got in five miles on a trail we knew and enjoyed, and then we drove back past all the camps and lodges to where we were staying to cleanup and change, and drove back out on the other highway with its winding roads and river and camps and had a wonderful evening with old friends and new acquaintances on the banks of the Guadalupe.
At the reception and dinner after the wedding – all outdoors under the trees – we learned more about Camp Waldemar and how it had attracted generations of young girls every summer for decades, much like we’ve heard about Camp Mystic. We learned the bride had gone to Waldemar for many years during her childhood, as had her mother before her. It was easy to understand why this beloved girls’ camp on the banks of the river was chosen as the wedding venue.
I can’t begin to imagine the loss and grief weighing on the parents of the girls who were lost at Camp Mystic last week, and the friends and families of all the others who have perished or are still missing even today. There are no words — and barely any prayers – that seem adequate or appropriate.
And I can hardly imagine the loss of place felt by the people who lived, camped and vacationed in that place of such beauty and serenity. What we saw on our visit in October, and what we are seeing in pictures and videos now . . . well, they bear no resemblance at all. The beautiful riverbanks and winding roads lined with ancient trees, rock walls and beautifully imagined camps have become a faceless washout of brown mud and piles of broken trees and debris.
The land is as shattered as the families that are mourning, and all I know to say is, “Lord, lead the way.”