In the early hours of July 4, 2025, as Americans across the nation prepared for Independence Day celebrations, a nightmare unfolded in the serene hills of Central Texas. Torrential rains transformed tranquil rivers into raging torrents, unleashing flash floods that claimed over 100 lives and left communities reeling. Among the most poignant stories emerging from this catastrophe is that of two young sisters, Blair and Brooke Harber, aged 13 and 11, whose final loving text messages to their family have broken the hearts of survivors and captivated a grieving nation. Their simple words—”I love you”—sent amid rising waters, serve as a haunting reminder of the fragility of life and the unbreakable bonds of family in the face of nature’s fury.
The flash floods struck with little warning, fueled by a slow-moving storm system that dumped unprecedented rainfall across Blanco, Kerr, Travis, and Burnet counties. Meteorological experts attribute the disaster to a combination of factors: saturated soil from prior rains, steep terrain that accelerated runoff, and intense thunderstorms that stalled over the region. Some areas received up to 12 inches of rain in just a few hours, causing rivers like the Guadalupe and Pedernales to swell rapidly. The Guadalupe River, in particular, rose more than 30 feet in places, overwhelming low-lying areas and sweeping away homes, vehicles, and bridges. This event echoes previous floods in Texas, such as the devastating 2015 Wimberley flood, but the 2025 deluge stands out for its holiday timing and the sheer number of casualties—initial estimates pegged the death toll at 24, but it quickly climbed to over 135 as bodies were recovered and missing persons reports mounted.
Johnson City and Blanco County bore much of the brunt, with the Pedernales River breaching its banks and destroying the U.S. 281 bridge, a vital artery for local residents. In Kerr County, along the Guadalupe River, entire communities were obliterated. Camp Mystic, a beloved all-girls summer camp in Hunt, Texas, became a site of unimaginable tragedy. Founded in 1926, the camp was hosting dozens of young campers when floodwaters surged through, claiming lives and leaving five campers and one counselor missing as of July 8. Rescue operations involved over 400 personnel, including teams from the Texas National Guard, utilizing helicopters, boats, and drones to search treacherous terrains. Governor Greg Abbott declared a state of emergency, mobilizing federal aid and urging residents to heed evacuation orders in the future.
The economic toll is staggering: Preliminary assessments indicate billions in damages to infrastructure, agriculture, and tourism-dependent businesses. Ranchers lost livestock, homes were reduced to rubble, and historic sites were damaged beyond repair. Yet, amid the statistics, it’s the human stories that pierce the soul. One such narrative revolves around the Harber family, whose weekend getaway turned into a harrowing tale of loss and heroism.
RJ Harber, a devoted father from Michigan, had brought his family to their modest cabin in the Casa Bonita community near Hunt, Texas, for a relaxing Fourth of July escape. The family frequented the area for its natural beauty—kayaking on the river, fishing, and creating cherished memories. On that fateful night, RJ and his wife, Annie, were staying in their one-bedroom cabin, while their daughters, Blair and Brooke, were with their paternal grandparents, Mike and Charlene Harber, in a nearby cabin closer to the lake. The girls, described by loved ones as bright, faith-filled children who enjoyed religion class and carried rosaries, were excited about the trip. Blair had even discussed God and heaven with her aunt just two weeks prior, a conversation that now haunts the family with its eerie prescience.
Around 3:30 a.m., RJ was jolted awake by the roar of thunder, lightning flashes, and pounding rain. Peering outside, he saw water creeping into the cabin. Flash-flood warnings had been issued for surrounding areas earlier, but none specifically for their location, leaving residents unprepared. As the water rose rapidly—to Annie’s neck level—the couple escaped through a window, unable to open the door against the current. In a display of selflessness, RJ knocked on doors of neighboring cabins, waking two families and helping them evacuate to higher ground. But his mind was fixed on his daughters and parents.
Borrowing a kayak, life vest, and flashlight from a neighbor, RJ set out toward the grandparents’ cabin, battling the surging waters. Halfway there, a powerful swell knocked him against a post, and he witnessed a chaotic scene: whitewater rapids carrying cars, trees, and debris. Realizing proceeding would be suicidal—”a death sentence,” as he later described it—RJ turned back, reuniting with Annie and the others in a home on elevated terrain. It was then, around 3:45 a.m., that he checked his phone and found the messages that would forever shatter his world.
Brooke had texted at 3:30 a.m.: “I love you.” Annie received similar messages from both girls: “I love you.” Even their grandfather in Michigan got a text saying “Love you,” accompanied by a photo of him with the girls. These simple, affectionate words, sent as the waters encroached, were the last communications from Blair and Brooke. The sisters, holding hands in their final moments, were swept away when their cabin was torn from its foundations and demolished by the flood. Their bodies were discovered about 12 miles downstream, still clasped together—a poignant symbol of their sisterly bond amid terror.
The grandparents, Mike and Charlene, remain missing, presumed dead. RJ, reflecting on the ordeal, shared his anguish: “All those great memories are now a bad memory.” The family’s GoFundMe campaign, aimed at covering funeral costs, surpassed $300,000, reflecting widespread sympathy. Donors and supporters highlighted the girls’ faith, noting they were “believers” who found solace in spirituality. RJ’s heroism—saving others while losing his own—has been lauded, but he grapples with survivor’s guilt, wondering if he could have done more.
This story is not isolated. The floods claimed diverse victims: young students at Camp Mystic, a grandmother en route to work, and a camp director beloved by generations. Another heartbreaking account involves 21-year-old Joyce Catherine Badon, who was vacationing with college friends in Hunt when their house collapsed around 4 a.m. Her final text to family: “We’re being washed away.” Her body was recovered days later, while her three friends—Ella Cahill, Aidan Heartfield, and Reese Manchaca—remain missing. Joyce’s mother, Kellye Badon, posted on social media: “We found our lovely daughter who blessed us for 21 years! We pray to be able to find her three friends soon. God is good!”
In Johnson City, the destruction was apocalyptic. The Pedernales River’s surge wiped out bridges and homes, isolating communities and complicating rescues. Blanco County officials reported at least 18 fatalities in the immediate area, with search teams combing debris fields for days. The broader impacts include environmental concerns: Floodwaters carried pollutants from ranches and septic systems into waterways, threatening ecosystems. Economically, tourism—a lifeline for Hill Country towns—has halted, with cabins and camps like Mystic facing uncertain futures.
Climate scientists link the intensity to global warming, noting that warmer atmospheres hold more moisture, leading to extreme precipitation events. Texas, no stranger to floods (recall Hurricane Harvey in 2017, which dumped 60 inches of rain and caused $125 billion in damages), must adapt. Experts call for improved warning systems, floodplain management, and infrastructure resilience. The Texas Emergency Management Chief has raised concerns about communication failures during the event, vowing no “armchair quarterbacking” but emphasizing lessons learned.
Survivors like RJ Harber embody resilience amid heartbreak. In interviews, he speaks of faith sustaining him, much like the girls’ own beliefs. Community vigils in Hunt and Johnson City have drawn hundreds, with candles lit for the lost. One resident shared: “These floods haunt us, but we rebuild stronger.” Federal aid, including FEMA assistance, is flowing in, but emotional scars linger.
The Harber sisters’ texts—”I love you”—echo as a universal cry of love in crisis. They remind us that amid devastation, human connections endure. As Texas heals, stories like Blair and Brooke’s inspire calls for preparedness, compassion, and unity. In the words of a Camp Mystic alumna: “We’ve lost so much, but the spirit of these girls lives on.” The floods of July 2025 will be remembered not just for destruction, but for the love that shone through the darkness.
