There are moments in a man’s life when his words feel like a betrayal.
This is one of them.
Because anything I write will not do justice to the raw wound stretching across Texas and New Mexico. No sentence—no matter how well-shaped—can describe the homes washed away, or the destruction left by Floodwaters. This is not simply weather. This is a humanitarian crisis, quiet in the way only American suffering can be—because it often happens without proper cameras or compassion.
I’ve kept them all in my prayers.
Both Texas and New Mexico were battered by floods.
People fleeing rising water, families praying for missing loved ones, whole communities reduced to rubble or memory.
I’ve also held someone closer in prayer—a dear friend in Houston, a healer by trade and by nature. I believe she and others—doctors, nurses, caregivers—are already mobilizing. They are the ones who step forward before anyone asks. The ones who show up while the nation debates. They pack their scrubs, their gauze, their quiet courage, and go. Not for politics. Not for applause. But for the people.
I often think about how place shapes perception.
In the Quad Cities—my home—we know natural disasters like we know the back of our hands. Tornado sirens were the lullabies of summer nights. Flooded streets were rituals, almost seasonal. You learned early to measure trauma in feet and inches of water. But even familiarity doesn’t dull devastation—it only makes it expected.
But for many in New Mexico, in regions where floods aren’t expected to reach their porches, the pain strikes differently. It’s not just loss—it’s betrayal. It’s learning, in one cruel stroke, what it means to live at the mercy of something larger and more indifferent than government. It is learning, quickly and violently, that Mother Nature is not a metaphor.
She does not negotiate. She does not plead. She comes as she is—rage wrapped in water.
So, no—I will not speak of politics. Not today. I won’t debate climate policy, relief budgets, or federal negligence. Not now. Because the water is still rising. And people are still missing.
This moment belongs not to partisanship but to compassion.
To the man who lost his house in the flood.
To the families who have lost loved ones in Ruidoso.
To the nurse flying into Houston, not knowing if there will be enough beds or time.
To the child who will never again see their bedroom, their bike, their favorite tree.
And perhaps to you, reading this, holding grief for strangers you’ve never met.
If this country is worth anything, it’s worth the way we show up for each other when the ground gives out and the sky collapses. Not with slogans. Not with red or blue hats. But with hands, and hearts, and quiet, necessary acts of grace.
Because when disaster comes, it doesn’t check party affiliation. It doesn’t care about borderlines or building codes. It comes for the breathing, the working, the praying—the living.
And when the winds still and the waters drain, all that will remain is the memory of who showed up. And who didn’t?
May we all, in whatever way we can, show up.
With our money.
With our time.
With our healing.
With our humanity.
Because that’s the only thing strong enough to rebuild what’s been broken.
By Kyle Hayes
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