Outside Miles Murayama's home in Kerr County, the sound of a circular saw sliced through the air as he awaited the end of months of repairs.
Nearly five months after the flooding, you wouldn't know the house was damaged and almost all the family's possessions destroyed. Only one bathroom remained unfinished.
Even as their lives have returned to some sense of normalcy, Murayama has been pondering one overriding question.
"Why? Why? Why Fourth of July, wee hours of the morning?" he said. "Why couldn’t it be Fourth of July during daylight, when people would have had a chance maybe?"
At least 138 people died that morning, including young children. Murayama has since leaned into his faith — and a newfound sense of community, pushing aside petty disagreements.
"After this flooding, our neighborhood became closer. ... People, you know, changed their ways," he said. "We don’t have as much animosity against each other. ... So we’re better, better than we was."
The rolling hills and the Guadalupe River make Kerr County a popular summer destination — but the river so beloved by residents and visitors turned into a destructive torrent in the early morning hours of July 4.
Since then, Murayama's 30-home neighborhood along the river has been recovering — and returning to the regular rhythms of life.
"I can’t wait for Thanksgiving so we can invite the family over," he said. "You know, this is a gathering place."
His contractor, Marshall James, was putting the finishing touches on the bathroom just in time for the holiday. He's been busy. Across the street, Joe and Lilia Herrera were anxiously awaiting him as they, too, prepared to host a gathering.
"I might not have everything, but we will make do with what I have," Lilia said. "That’s what we’re going to do, right Joe?"
"Yeah, the best — we’re going to have the best ever," Joe replied.
They're grateful for a narrow escape on the morning of July 4, when 5 to 11 inches of rain fell in a few hours, raising the river more than 37 feet.
Joe has Parkinson's disease — but as the water surged into their home, he was more worried about his wife than himself.
"I said, ‘Go to the attic.' I said, ‘You worry about saving yourself,'' Joe recalled.
"He said, ‘Save yourself. Don’t save me,'" Lilia added, "and that’s when we heard Ram."
Ram is their neighbor, Ramiro Gonzalez.
"It’s a miracle that they got out of the house," Gonzalez said.
Wading through floodwaters, he tied a strap around Joe and pulled him up to safety.
This Thanksgiving, Gonzalez will still be helping his neighbors.
"I’ll be at the Salvation Army, delivering food," he said, "and then I’ll come over to Joe's afterwards."
"Goodbye and good night"
It's not a celebratory Thanksgiving for everyone.
Across the state, in Houston, Matthew Childress will always remember June 27 — the day his daughter, Chloe, left for what was supposed to be a month-long stint as a counselor at Camp Mystic.
"She gave me a big hug and kiss. I told her, ‘17 kisses,' which is our way of saying goodbye and good night to one another for her entire life," Childress said. "And she said, ‘Don’t worry about it, Dad. I’ll see you soon.' "
Chloe, along with another counselor and 25 campers, was swept away from the century-old Christian summer camp for girls.
Eight days after their goodbye, Childress was identifying his daughter's body at a mortuary in Kerrville.
"I went back in and gave her 17 kisses before we said goodbye," he said, "because that’s how we said goodbye, good night, every night."
When he and his wife returned home, they found a scripture reference in her bathroom — Isaiah 43:2. "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they will not overwhelm you."
Chloe was about a month from starting school at the University of Texas at Austin. Instead, on what was supposed to be move-in day, Childress sat in meetings with state officials, advocating for what would become a new state law strengthening safety regulations at camps in Texas.
The families watched from the galleries of the Texas Legislature as the rules that could have saved their daughters made their way to the governor's desk.
"During the Senate bill passing, Lieutenant Governor Dan Patrick made additional comments about the two counselors that brought me to tears," Childress recalled.
"They were old enough and big enough they could have saved themselves and they — they stayed. They stayed," Patrick said on Aug. 21. "So to those two counselors — I don’t know that we have an award for courage in Texas, but if we don’t, we need to have one. Because those two 18-year-olds did what scripture says — you give your life to try to save another."
"During those two sessions, I was pretty stoic, pretty stone-faced, and what he said brought me to roaring tears," Childress said.
Childress, his wife and their son are back at work and in school. But the grief is impossible to escape.
"You find yourself not thinking about it, which is great, and you’re focused on positive things and productive things," he said, "but there’s always this sort of dark cloud, sort of waiting for you — that reminder that, oh yes, this happened, and this is something that we’re stuck with that we can’t escape."
Chloe's birthday was in October, and the family is now facing their first holiday season without her.
This Thanksgiving, he said, they're creating new traditions — leaving town instead of staying in with family.
"We haven’t quite figured out what we’re going to do for Christmas, but it may be the same thing as well," he said, "because going back to our usual traditions here in Houston, here at our house with our family, is maybe too hard of a burden to take on."
When they get back, reminders of the grief will be waiting — the state investigation of the floods; the multiple lawsuits against Camp Mystic; and Chloe's bedroom, the door to which they keep open, on purpose, to hold onto the feeling and memory of their only daughter.
Copyright 2025 Houston Public Media News 88.7