BREAKING: Elite 2028 QB Donald Tabron II has Committed to Texas A&M, he tells me for @Rivals
The 6’4 190 QB chose the Aggies over LSU and Oregon
He’s ranked as the No. 3 QB in the 2028 Rivals Industry Rankings 👍
https://t.co/0Dju21CH7T
Medal of Honor recipient Matt Williams ’25 grew up in an Aggie household in Boerne, Texas, learning the value of hard work and service from his dad ’77. Matt was recognized at the Military Appreciation game as one of nine Aggie Medal of Honor recipients.
Read his story: https://t.co/Eicmd2jtvd
#TAMU #AggieSpirit #Veteran #SelflessService
📸: Matt Williams
Good morning.
The reason you feel Charlie’s death so deeply is because grief doesn’t measure itself by proximity. It measures itself by meaning. You didn’t have to know him personally to feel the sting of his absence, because when a voice like his goes silent, something in the atmosphere shifts.
The reason it feels heavier than so many other tragedies is because your spirit recognizes that this is not just about a man, it is about a battle. Scripture says eternity is written on our hearts, and when someone who carried truth with boldness is suddenly gone, eternity aches within us. It’s like our souls know instinctively that the darkness celebrated, and that strikes us at the core.
The reason you can’t shake it is because psychologically, we don’t only attach ourselves to people…we attach ourselves to symbols. Charlie became a symbol of conviction in a time of compromise, courage in a time of fear. And when a symbol is struck down, it rattles something primal and eternal inside us.
That’s why even those who never met him feel it. There is a strange thread pulling at us, and it is not imagined. It is real. We are bound together by shared purpose, by shared longing for truth, by the Spirit of God Himself weaving us into a fabric that cannot be torn apart. This loss pulled at that fabric, and every one of us felt the tug.
So if you’ve wondered why this hits so hard, it’s because your soul knows. This is bigger than news. This is bigger than politics. This is about eternity, about truth, and about the weight of a man whose life carried both.
Love y’all.
Y'all, I had a bunch of good content programmed for today but I just don't have the heart to let it post. The tragedy in the Hill Country makes what I do here feel so insignificant. To come to terms with the idea that the rivers we cherish ----- the rivers that give so much life to this place and nurtured the dreams of our ancestors and defined our geography and history --- that these same rivers have turned fierce, claiming lives and shattering communities ... it's too much for a poor old Texas heart.
Each time one of these natural disasters --- be it hurricane, tornado or flood — happens, it is a reminder of nature’s power and our powerless. We mourn for those who are gone, for the families grappling with unimaginable grief, and for the places we hold dear, now scarred by this tragedy. In the sadness of this moment, I think of the stories that make the Hill Country so special: the laughter of folks swimming in those same rivers, the strum of guitars under oak trees, the resilience of neighbors who become family in times like these. And I am encouraged at least by the knowledge that those stories cannot be washed away. Because they live in us, in the courage of first responders wading through treacherous waters, in the hands of volunteers clearing debris, in the prayers whispered across county lines, in the memories of those left behind.
God bless the souls of those who were lost. May their spirits roam these windswept prairies forever.
It’s easy to try to blame someone for the floods in the Hill Country, but this was just an act of God.
The waterways in the Hill Country are narrow, and dry for most of the year. They run through canyons — flanked on either side by 50-foot walls of limestone carved away by millions of years of flooding.
We have what are called “hollows.” Steep, narrow channels that are often dry, carving through the uplands until they drop off dramatically above the primary water system.
Our soil is a thin layer of caliche — the fertile, dark topsoil washed away generations ago when they tried to grow cotton on the land, when the grasslands were burned away and when there was no more dead material left to decompose.
Underneath that topsoil is limestone. And limestone doesn’t drain. Water runs off it, and it runs downhill, down those hollows, and into the canyons.
Because those rivers are so narrow, the water rises quickly. And when you’re downstream, there’s little warning. You might get 6 inches dumped 50 miles from you, and you’ll never have any idea of the raging wall of water that’s coming your way.
The other thing about Central Texas is the rain. Robert Caro, in his first book about LBJ, wrote about how life in the Hill Country is a drought interrupted by torrential downpours and flooding that made pioneering the land, taming the land, very, very hard.
And while we’ve built dams to control the water, it’s still very, very true. The Hill Country has been in a remarkable drought, and the only thing that breaks a drought is a storm like this.
We saw it in ‘15 on Memorial Day weekend. More than a foot fell in the western Hill Country and tore through Wimberley, a wall of water some 40 feet high drowning dozens of poor campers and vacationers.
Later that year, a tropical storm stalled over the hills and dropped more than a foot of water within 12 hours.
Totals of a foot, or more, are not unheard of. In Lampassas County, back around 2007, they got more than 24 inches in a 12-hour period due to a similar system.
We’re tried to tame the land by building dams, and raising our floodplains. We’ve redeveloped low water crossings and built tanks and retention ponds, but the Hill Country will do what it has done for millions of years — it will flood, and wash everything away, and leave us picking up the pieces.