Dallas community's ribbons, prayers honor girls missing and killed in Camp Mystic flood tragedy
Residents in the Highland Park neighborhood said two of the girls attended Bradfield Elementary. Sunday, the school was decorated with ribbons, and throughout the entire neighborhood, there are green ribbons around trees, representing Camp Mystic.
Since Friday, there have been prayer services for the victims. During service, Rev. Paul Rasmussen with Highland Park United Methodist Church said, "It is somber and painful for so many, and we are all connected in some way to the folks in Central Texas many directly to those at Camp Mystic but not limited to Camp Mystic but even beyond, and I know we have folks watching from all over online and some of you may not be as directly connected but this has been a tough 72 hours for this community."
Throughout the week a group of counselors in Dallas are offering free counseling for anyone in need.
"The ribbons are a great reminder that we are all experiencing grief right now. I think it's something small that families can do to let one another but also families who have lost loved ones know that we are thinking of them and praying for them," said Amy Jo Secker, Counselor with Revolve Wellness Collective.
Those interested in receiving counseling can contact Revolve Wellness Collective at 214-620-0727. Free group counseling is available July 9-11 from 1 p.m. – 2:30 p.m.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
CNN
a day ago
- CNN
How a Hurricane Katrina victim is helping the smallest survivors of the Texas floods
Most people don't expect Mimi Hymel to remember Hurricane Katrina. After all, she was only 3 when the Category 5 storm slammed into her Louisiana home in 2005. But nearly 20 years later, as Hymel watched news of the floodwaters inundating Texas Hill Country and saw the harrowing images of destruction from Camp Mystic, she said those memories came back with sharp clarity. She can still recall the moment her family decided they couldn't ride out Katrina and the sinking feeling she felt as her mom placed Hymel and her sister in their car and drove away, leaving their dad behind to work at a nearby hospital. But most of all, Hymel said, she remembers how she struggled to fall asleep for days after they escaped the storm because she didn't have her favorite stuffed animal. 'I just had no idea if my dad was OK or even coming home at all,' she recalled. 'I had a teddy bear named Cuddles that I didn't get to take in the car with me. In a scary time like that, I really wanted it for comfort.' Indeed, the importance of these plush companions was apparent as the floodwaters began seeping through the Chatterbox cabin at Camp Mystic, prompting a 9-year-old to offer her top bunk as a safe place for campers to store their stuffies during the storm. Hymel said the trauma of escaping a natural disaster has a way of changing you. But all these years later, she's found a way of channeling her experience during Katrina into helping today's youngest survivors. In the immediate aftermath of Katrina, Hymel said there was no shortage of local organizations and kind neighbors who tried to meet her family's immediate needs for food, clothes and shelter. But as a child, she said she struggled to process such dramatic and rapid change. 'When we finally did get back to our house, everything was destroyed,' she recalled. And Cuddles had been lost to the floodwaters. Studies have long shown blankets or stuffed animals can help children adapt to unfamiliar or distressing situations and they become even more important when a child is processing grief. Although the family ultimately resettled in Texas, as she grew older, Hymel said she noticed how some first responders or families would share photos of stuffed animals they recovered after a disaster. 'I was once that child so it's always just emotional seeing those photos,' she said. 'I realized that kids experience disasters a little bit differently, so relief needs to work a little differently for them too.' That realization sparked Hymel to mobilize after catastrophes, coordinating with local businesses to host donation drives for stuffies and then partnering with first responders and other organizations to help distribute the plush toys in the aftermath of a tragedy. After the success of her early donation efforts, Hymel founded Comfort Bears in a Catastrophe. The nonprofit not only provides kids with a new stuffed animal after a crisis, but they also connect families to mental health resources. Each stuffed animal is tagged with a card offering free crisis counseling through the national Disaster Distress Helpline, which offers children and their families help navigating traumatic events. As interest in her work grew, so did the need. From the Miami Surfside condo collapse to the destructive fires in Maui and Los Angeles and countless floods and tornadoes, these days the steady drumbeat of disasters has been relentless, Hymel said. And so far, the nonprofit has donated more than 50,000 stuffed animals to children in need, Hymel said. She has also written a series of children's books called 'Miss Prepared and Captain Ready.' 'It teaches them important skills to know if a disaster were to hit, but it also encourages kids to get involved in their own way,' she said. But nothing, Hymel added, can compare to the joy of seeing a child receive a new stuffed animal and finding a sense of comfort in the midst of a crisis. 'After Hurricane Ian, I was able to donate to the hospital I was actually born in,' Hymel said. 'That was just kind of full circle.' From her home in Houston earlier this month, Annie Gully and her daughter watched as reports of flooding in the Texas Hill Country grew more dire by the hour. A close friend, she later learned, lost her niece, 8-year-old Blakely McCrory, in the floodwaters at Camp Mystic. 'It's just unfathomable to even wrap your head around something like this happening,' she said. 'You kind of have to go through the sadness and then you're like, 'OK, what can we do to help.'' Gully, who owns Tree House Arts and Crafts, a local children's art studio, said over the years she's seen how a child's favorite stuffed animal can become like a family member. So, when her daughter suggested a donation drive for kids, she leaped at the idea. She reached out to Comfort Bears on social media and within hours they had a game plan. Gully's donation drive was covered on the local news and 'that day alone, I think we collected 600' stuffed animals, she said. After three days they received more than 1,100 donations to be distributed throughout the state. 'Children don't really have an outlet to help' after a crisis, Gully said. 'You could tell their parents had explained to them that other kids have lost their lovies and how sad would it be if you lost your(s).' Gully is also selling 'Mystic Strong' artwork, and the proceeds will be donated to charity in honor of McCrory and the other lives lost at Camp Mystic. 'I feel like every time you turn on the news, there's just something worse that you hear about,' Gully said. But, she added, watching her community come together to donate comfort to the smallest victims of the floods in Kerr County has given her a reason to hope. 'No one cares who you are, what you look like or who you voted for,' she said, 'We're all just doing things together to help.'
Washington Post
a day ago
- Washington Post
With scores still missing from Texas flood, a quest to ‘find every soul'
HUNT, Texas — From the north bank of the Guadalupe River, Rough Vine watched as a team of searchers in neon yellow shirts circled a mound of crushed trees near the water's edge. Suddenly his face turned grim. It was his 10th day volunteering with the massive effort to find bodies — and to provide solace to the families most devastated by Texas Hill Country's historic flooding on the Fourth of July. Often working solo, Vine had maneuvered his skid steer and flatbed trailer to clear tons of debris carried downstream by the raging waters. So far, the contractor had helped recover the remains of eight people.
Yahoo
a day ago
- Yahoo
My Parents Both Died By Suicide — On The Same Day. I Haven't Been The Same Since.
The author's parents in 1947. In the middle of a plate of enchiladas and salad, the phone rings. I sigh — it's been days since I've had the time or appetite to enjoy a meal. My husband, Tom, is busy at the kitchen counter, so I reach for the phone, and my brother says, 'They're both gone.' It's 2 p.m. on Dec. 18, 1994, and with those three words, I am orphaned. After several years of suffering physical and mental anguish, my mother could take no more, and my father, who people later said couldn't bear the thought of life without his bride of 46 years, went along for the final ride, ending both their lives in their garage. On that day, as Tom and I made the 90-minute drive from our home in Massachusetts to the small farm in Connecticut where I was brought up, I looked to the sky, hoping for some kind of a sign — of peace, or comfort or simply of resolution. In the cloud formation above me I imagined two figures, waving goodbye. That was the first of many signs I have received over the now 29 years since my mother and father died by suicide at ages 72 and 73, respectively. My view on things in general had always leaned toward 'just the facts,' but in the space of 24 hours I began to look beyond the surface and open my eyes to what I could not or would not normally see. The days that followed were a haze of sorrow-driven activity, but some of what transpired remains clear. My father had taken care of all final arrangements, leaving detailed instructions on where to go and who to contact. While not highly religious, my parents wanted to be buried in a Jewish cemetery, and so my brother, husband and I met with the congregation rabbi the day following the deaths, unaware that suicide was considered taboo in the Jewish religion. As such, my parents could not rest in hallowed burial grounds, something the rabbi made us well aware of moments after we were seated. He then asked point blank, 'What was the reason for your parents' sudden death?' I felt a slight tap on my shoulder and suddenly was aware of a way to place their final wish out of jeopardy. I blurted out 'mental illness.' 'Ah,' said the rabbi. 'For that reason, burial in our cemetery is granted.' The next day's graveside ceremony had me again looking toward the sky, but this time no cloud reached down to comfort me. Instead, the air fell cold on shoulders that were suddenly burdened by a weight that still, after all these years, has lightened, but never completely lifted. Over the next few months, a redefined 'normal' made its way into my life, but with it came a sense of vulnerability that remains hard to shake. I went back to work within a week. At the time, I was a general assignment newspaper reporter, trained to 'get the story, get out, and get writing.' Increasingly, I found myself lingering over interviews with those people who had been brushed or crushed by tragedy: the father of a drowning victim, a beloved high school teacher diagnosed with a brain tumor, the family evicted from their home by a heartless landlord. I somehow found solace in those I came to refer to as 'my people' — others who had been hard hit by a catastrophic circumstance. Soon that desire to cocoon myself in others' misery morphed into something else: fear. Fear of today. Fear of tomorrow. Fear of anything that might go wrong. If my husband was more than 10 minutes late getting home from work, I imagined he had been in an accident. If our cat had a slight cough, I was convinced it was congestive heart failure. If my brother said he was feeling blue, I worried he would go down the same path our parents did. The author in 2023. Oddly enough, I was the only person I didn't fret over. In fact, I wished something would go wrong with my health or job — it sounds ludicrous, but I convinced myself that a health or employment problem of mine would go toward my family's tragedy quota and prevent other loved ones from harm. I also believed it might atone for my inability to prevent my parents' deaths. I can't count the number of times I have said, 'I should have...' and although my guilt will never completely subside, it has diminished over the past 29 years, replaced by a steadfast awareness of my parents' continued presence. Every October, around my father's birthday, either I or my husband find a new or rusty nail on our front door steps. A coincidence, perhaps, but I look at it as something more. When cleaning out their house, Tom and I had joked about the neat rows of mayonnaise jars that lined a bookcase in my parents' basement, filled with both new and old nails — a true testament to my father's frugality! I consider the annual discovery a love letter from my dad. And each day, before I leave for work, I hold a little fashion show in front of the mirror that used to hang in my parents' bedroom. My taste in clothing is similar to my mother's, and I view this daily exercise as an opportunity to connect with the woman who — for all I know — may be gazing back at me through the looking glass. I have also arrived at the unorthodox notion that my father (whose appetite was legendary among family members!) might take otherworldly enjoyment from the food I prepare during the holidays. For that reason, I always include one or two of his favorite dishes ― not only as a homage to the man who could polish off three of my homemade cinnamon rolls with ease, but also because maybe, just maybe, he can still taste and relish from his perch out there wherever he now is. Dec. 18, 1994, brought about other, more concrete changes in my life. I have reconnected with relatives, some of whom I had lost contact with for 20 or more years. It's bittersweet how losing family members can open the doors to the embracing arms of other family members. And for many years now I have been a volunteer ombudsman at a local nursing facility, working as an advocate for residents. A form of penance for an act I couldn't prevent? Perhaps, but regardless, for each time I am successful in bringing about a positive change for an elderly individual, I imagine my parents applauding from up above as they watch their now 68-year-old daughter doing a 'mitzvah.' The event that transpired on that cold, clear early winter day in 1994 has changed my life in so many ways — some for the good, others for the not so good. I'm kinder to others. I cherish the smallest of pleasures. I listen better. I cry more easily. I have trouble sleeping. I can't bear to be in an idling car. I wear vulnerability like a scent. I too often imagine the worse, for I know the worse can happen... because it did. But in a world where the worst exists, so too does the best. I'm satisfied with settling for the middle ground. If you or someone you know needs help, call or text 988 or chat for mental health support. Additionally, you can find local mental health and crisis resources at Outside of the U.S., please visit the International Association for Suicide Prevention. Sharon Nery is the former editor-in-chief of a business journal and was a reporter for a metropolitan daily newspaper in Massachusetts. She has been a columnist, restaurant and music reviewer, and is presently lead writer for a public relations agency in the greater Boston area. She is a federally certified ombudsman and does per diem work as a resident companion at an assisted living community. This article originally appeared on HuffPost in January 2024. Also in Goodful: Also in Goodful: Also in Goodful:
