Reflections on My Time in Kerrville
Vicarious trauma, the need to pray and serve, and beginning to grieve
The beautiful hill country town of Kerrville is now known around the world.
Terrifying torrential rain in the early morning hours of July 4 led to river flooding that has so far claimed at least 120 lives, and at last report, more than 150 bodies and souls are still unaccounted for.
There are so many stories already, and so many more to come. Stories of tragic loss and destruction, stories of heroic rescue, and stories of compassion and help from every quarter.
Recovery for the town and region will not be quick, and in the meantime, nearly everyone wants to DO SOMETHING to help.
Thousands of people have offered to pull their boots on to search, rescue, and recover. At a certain point, first responder teams and government officials had to turn people away and seal off areas because hordes of people began to hinder rather than help their progress.
News cameras are everywhere. Pallet after pallet of water bottles, snacks, and Gatorade are stacked up. People have been driving through offering food, diapers, dog food, anything and everything that might help.
This week, I have been privileged to play a small part by listening to stories from some of the people who live or work in Kerrville. Since 2002, I have been a contracted consultant for a company that dispatches clinicians to work sites where employees have experienced a traumatic or disruptive event.
Consultants like me, licensed counselors, enter atmospheres of shock, grief, and distress, and work to help individuals and groups process their experiences, assess the impact of the event on their health and safety, focus on self-care, and connect to resources to support their recovery from the trauma.
I spent a day at Walmart, another day at HEB, and a day at a trucking depot. Most of the people I encountered told me they felt fortunate that they were not directly impacted. I translate this to mean that they were still able to come to work, unlike those who suffered catastrophic loss of a loved one or pet, or lost their home and all of their belongings. They all know someone in this other category.
I affirm the way that these people, comparing their own experience with those more directly impacted, were acutely concerned about how to help others, and not so much about their own well-being. Many said they were praying a lot. They were grief-stricken alongside parents of little girls swept away in the darkness.
But mainly they were determined to show up, keep doing their jobs to serve their customers, stay busy, comfort one another, and be ready to help in any way possible.
I’m sure those of you reading this have felt this way in the aftermath of a disaster. We long to do more than say, “My thoughts and prayers are with you.” Somehow, praying and making a donation don’t feel like we are doing much. But our prayers do matter, and they indicate the state of our hearts.
I listened to an excellent podcast by Allie Beth Stuckey on my trip to Kerrville yesterday. One of the great things she emphasized was this (Allie Beth, forgive my paraphrase):
Those who pray are those most likely to help in other ways, whereas those who blame, politicize, complain, and look with scorn on those who pray are least likely to show up and help in other ways.
This says we ought to keep praying, because in some mysterious way, The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective (James 5:16). We may never understand the interplay between the sovereignty of God in such a horrific circumstance and the effectiveness of the prayers of feeble humans. But God wants us to pray. He wants us to bring even our impossibilities to him, because he is the God of possibilities, whether or not we understand what he is doing.
And…if there are other substantive ways we can help, we ought to do that too.
The grief of those I spoke with was very close to the surface, even in those who were not directly impacted. One man told me his family had lived in Kerrville for four generations. He had gone to church for forty years with Dick Eastland, the owner and director of Camp Mystic who died after leading several of his little campers to safety. “Not directly impacted?” I asked. “I’d call that a pretty direct hit. You lost someone you have loved, worshiped with, and respected for much of your life.”
Trauma occupies many layers in the human psyche. New traumas sometimes unearth old ones that have been underground for years. Then there is what we call vicarious trauma.
Vicarious trauma is most often attributed to first responders, military service members, emergency medical personnel, and allied professionals who experience continuous exposure to situations of trauma and violence. There are gruesome sights and sounds even the most stoic, best-trained human is not meant to experience. Repeated exposure to these things is bound to have a corrosive effect on the nerves.
But witnessing, listening, seeing images, reading about, and hearing about what is happening on the ground, though removed a degree, can pack almost as much of a punch, especially for highly sensitive people. In this case, it is wise to limit intake of news reporting and devote more time to prayer. More exposure will probably not be helpful and could be harmful to your mental health.
As for me, in my professional role, I’ve learned to compartmentalize when necessary. I can be fully present and aware, listening empathically, reflecting, gently guiding, while my own deep emotions are kept at bay.
It’s not that I’ve never cried with a trauma victim. I’m not dead inside. But, I believe they have a greater need to be in the proximity of someone who can remain full of faith in the face of their doubt and questioning, strong in the face of their powerlessness, and calm in the face of their turmoil.
Someone who can steady them for a moment. Someone to remind them to breathe. Someone to assure them they are not alone, and that somehow they will survive. Someone to testify from experience that recovery is possible, but may take a good while. I can encourage them to begin the messy work of grief in a place of safety.
One older employee spent her break time showing me pictures on her phone. She had gone to the main city park next to the river as soon as the waters subsided. She took pictures of mangled trees twisted together with cars, corrugated metal, park benches, rocks, toys, and every other type of debris imaginable.
We talked about what motivated her to expose herself to these disturbing images. She said she felt she had to know, to see it with her own eyes, to experience the vastness of it. This was what she needed, and this is what she did. She has chosen her own unique way to grieve and honor those lost, and her own creative brand of resilience.
I will leave you with a Scripture and a simple encouragement.
As I opened the “My Daily Bread” devotional this morning, I was led to this portion of Psalm 139, one of my favorites:
Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,” even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you.
There is no place we can go where we are not in the Lord’s sight. He welcomes his children home. And he knows the location of each person who remains lost and missing. Lord, would you reveal this knowledge quickly to your searching servants?
I worked with a pastor who would often greet me in the morning with, “Miss Ruth, has anyone told you yet today that they love you?” Whatever my answer, he’d say, “Well, I do.” It always caused me to feel valued, known, and appreciated.
I am reminded these days not to take people for granted. We can’t know for certain that we will see them again. Whenever we part, we can remind our dear ones how much they matter and how much they are loved.
Praying for you and all of those affected!! 💙💙