In the Ruins of a Flood, One Mother Searches for What Can’t Be Replaced
In the wake of the deadly Camp Mystic flooding in Kerr County, Texas, where 27 lives were tragically lost, one mother’s quiet plea rises from the heartbreak — not for justice, not for answers, but for something tender and deeply personal: her daughter’s stuffed monkey.
For Stacy Stevens, it’s not just a toy. It’s the last thread connecting her to her 8-year-old daughter, Mary.
A Tiny Monkey With a Big Heartbeat
The stuffed animal in question is a well-worn, floppy monkey made by Jellycat — the kind children carry with them everywhere until the fur fades and the stitching loosens from love. Mary had owned it since she was a baby. It went with her to doctor’s appointments, family vacations, and eventually, to the summer camp that would become her final destination.
Mary brought the monkey with her to Camp Mystic over the July 4th weekend — a place built for campfires, songs, and sun-drenched childhood memories. But when flash floods tore through the region, what should have been a week of laughter turned to tragedy.
Among the belongings swept away was the monkey.
A Name Tag and a Mother’s Hope
The toy, worn soft with time, had a sticker attached — one of those square name labels parents stick to lunch boxes and water bottles. It read Mary Barrett Stevens. That small tag, Stacy hopes, might be enough to bring it back.
“If anyone sees it… please, please let us know,” she wrote in a Facebook post that quickly captured hearts across Texas. “We lost Mary. But if we could just have her monkey… it was everything to her.”
Stacy’s message wasn’t just about a lost toy. It was about anchoring memory to something real — a way of holding her daughter close in a world suddenly too quiet.
Who Mary Was
Mary wasn’t just one of the victims in the news headlines. She was a vibrant, spirited second-grader from Austin — a child described by friends and teachers as “light in motion.” She was fearless. Joyful. Quick to laugh. Always dancing.
“You had a dance party with your friends before God called you home,” Stacy wrote in a tribute to her daughter. “I picture you still dancing, just somewhere we can’t see.”
Mary is survived by her parents, Stacy and Johnny, and her siblings, Graham and Lilly. Their loss has shaken the community. A GoFundMe started by family friends described the Stevens as a family now living in “a fog of unimaginable pain.”
Why a Toy Can Matter So Much
Grief doesn’t follow logic. It clings to objects, to memories, to sounds and smells and the way a little girl once carried her favorite stuffed monkey everywhere she went. In that monkey is Mary’s story — a stand-in for every hug, every comforted fear, every night she fell asleep with it tucked beside her.
The toy, no longer sold by Jellycat, may be one of the last things that feels “hers.” In a world flooded by loss, Stacy’s request is heartbreakingly simple: help us bring it home.
A Community’s Role in Healing
As recovery efforts continue across Central Texas, where over 170 people remain missing and the death toll continues to rise, stories like Mary’s remind us that behind every number is a name, a face, and a family trying to piece themselves back together.
Search teams, volunteers, and locals are being asked to keep an eye out for the small stuffed monkey. It may be caught in debris. It may have floated downstream. But its return — however unlikely — would be a symbol of hope in a time of devastation.
If found, people are urged to contact local authorities or reply directly to Stacy Stevens’ original post on Facebook.
Conclusion: More Than a Monkey
In a world where loss often feels too big to grasp, sometimes healing begins with something small — a child’s favorite toy, worn by years of love and tiny hands. For the Stevens family, recovering that monkey wouldn’t change what happened. But it would offer a piece of their daughter’s spirit back to them.
It’s not just a stuffed animal. It’s the memory of bedtime stories, of giggles before sleep, of a child who once believed in magic.
And now, for one grieving mother, it’s the hope that love — like memory — can still find its way home.