Sacred Pause

Writing Through Collective Tragedy

When disaster strikes during celebration, how do you honor both your calling and your broken heart?

The Fourth of July should bring fireworks and family cookouts—but this year, devastating floods marked the holiday instead. Texas Hill Country suffered fatal losses. Families at Camp Mystic, a Christian summer camp for girls, faced the unimaginable. The roar of rushing water replaced laughter and song. And as the weekend passed, floodwaters swept across North Carolina, causing severe damage, leaving behind the sickening scent of mud and loss.

My husband and I canceled cable last year for on-demand streaming, eliminating regular news from our lives. But today, news finds you. Every smartphone user becomes a local reporter. As I opened social media and scrolled, heaviness settled into my heart—that cold grip of dread when familiar places become unrecognizable overnight.

Years ago, I sent my boys to summer camps too. I felt the ache of parents who had done the same, never expecting tragedy. Some will never reunite with their children on this side of eternity.

The weight stayed with me.

I recalled our visits to that area—our stay at an Airbnb right on the Guadalupe River. I remembered kayaking those waters, smiling in the sunlight, the gentle splash of paddles in calm current, never imagining the destruction it would one day bring.

Swift water rescue teams helped people clinging to tree branches while helicopters lifted others from debris. I can't imagine their trauma. Even survivors will carry this forever. Life changes irrevocably after such events.

We rarely discuss this, but as a writer and writing coach, I struggled to focus. How do we respond when collective grief pulls us under?

Image generated by Flux-Pro.

I was reminded of that poignant moment in Marley & Me when John Grogan wrestled with writing his newspaper column amid life's weightier matters. How could he focus on stories about a rambunctious dog when real tragedies unfolded around him? Yet he discovered that these seemingly small narratives connected most deeply with readers because they reflected shared human experience.

I felt that same tension this week—fingers hovering over keys, wondering if my words mattered while floodwaters rose elsewhere. But perhaps this is precisely when our writing matters most. Not as distraction from suffering, but as a gentle hand reaching across the distance, saying "I see this too. You're not alone in feeling it."

Our words become bridges when physical presence isn't possible.

I journaled. I prayed. I sat with the sorrow—not just for the event itself, but for all lives now marked by it.

For grieving parents.

For camp leaders.

For homes destroyed.

I prayed for comfort, strength, and for God's undeniable presence to surround them.

The writing life includes this unspoken truth: grief visits unexpectedly. Your capacity to teach, encourage, or produce might suddenly vanish under shared sorrow's weight.

But that, my friend, doesn't represent failure. It demonstrates your humanity.

It doesn't diminish your calling or mean you're falling behind. It means your heart remains awake.

We often expect ourselves to maintain productivity--as if nothing happened. To inspire and remain available.

But sometimes, faithfulness requires quiet. Breathing. Mourning. Not in despair, but with reverence for others' pain--with willingness to sit with it, even when words wait to be written.

"Mourn with those who mourn." (Romans 12:15)

This verse doesn't command us to fix, but invites us to be present. To feel the ache. To share sorrow—even from afar.

As writers, we carry stories and truth alongside empathy. Sometimes, obedience means pausing our plans to witness someone else's pain.

So how should we handle collective grief?

Some must go—provide clean water, food, clothing, and shelter. Others participate in cleanup efforts.

Most of us serve elsewhere. But we all can pray. And those able can give--supporting trustworthy organizations helping families and communities rebuild.

After doing what we can, we return to our calling.

Writers write.

When our words reflect authentic emotion, they resonate.

The time we spend processing becomes the well from which we pour.

Sit with Jesus in your emotion. Let Him hold you there.

Those who remain filled with the Spirit offer words that matter.

Will you take a moment to pray with me?

A Prayer for the Flood Victims in Texas, North Carolina, and Beyond

Father God, We lift up everyone affected by these floods--those grieving loved ones, facing destroyed homes, and awaiting answers. Comfort them with Your presence. Surround them with help, hope, and healing. Draw near to the brokenhearted and strengthen the weary. Send people who will weep, sit, and serve with them in love. Bring restoration and let Your peace overcome the chaos. You remain our refuge and strength, our present help in trouble. We trust You to hold what feels unholdable. In Jesus' name, Amen.

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If this reflection met you where you are and you prayed with me, I'd love to hear from you. Tap the ❤️ or leave a comment. And if someone you know carries more than words today, please share this with them.

P.S. If collective grief has left you stalled in your writing journey—thinking about your book but struggling to put words on the page—please know you're not alone. This sacred pause may be exactly what your heart needs right now.

When you're ready to move forward again, I've created "Brave Words, Gentle Steps," a free PDF guide to help you transition from reflection to action. Inside, you'll find Spirit-led strategies that honor both your emotions and your calling—gentle pathways to begin writing with purpose and peace, so you can faithfully steward the work God has placed on your heart, even after seasons of heaviness.