Honey bees are amazing creatures. A few years back, we got bees on our homestead, and they are unlike any other animal we’ve ever had. When we suit up and go out to the hives, the gentle but constant buzzing is mesmerizing, and at times, intimidating. You can hear, and sometimes even feel, the way their tone shifts as the mood of the hive changes. The soft, rhythmic hum of a calm hive is almost soothing. The chaotic, high-pitched, almost frenzied buzz of an angry hive, on the other hand, can make you second-guess why you’re standing there with only a thin suit between you and hundreds of stinging insects.
No matter the mood of the hive, one thing becomes clear very quickly… there is nothing random about a colony of bees. Everything in their world is ordered, purposeful, and held together by countless small things that could easily be overlooked. And it’s those small things that reflect lessons I think many of us could carry into our own everyday lives.
When you stop and consider what it takes for a hive to function, you have to look at all the little jobs the bees share. Many of those tasks could be called small, and many are easily overlooked. Most happen over and over again. Bees spend their lives cleaning cells, feeding brood, regulating hive temperature, tending, carrying, and maintaining. The list goes on and on. Yet every one of those tasks helps hold the hive together. Each small, overlooked act supports the whole.
For us, those same kinds of small, overlooked, repetitive tasks may look like nightly dishes, feeding animals, praying for loved ones, cooking dinner, checking the mail, or handling the thousand little things that keep a home or workplace running. Nobody applauds those jobs because nobody tends to think about them until they stop getting done. But without them, the system begins to fail. Maybe not all at once, and maybe not in dramatic ways at first, but eventually things start to erode.
Another amazing thing bees do, because of all those quiet, repetitive jobs, is prepare for hardship. During the productive seasons, while they’re collecting pollen and producing bread and honey, they are also building stores. They gather while resources are available so that when winter comes and those resources disappear, the hive can survive.
As people, we often forget that part of life. We fail to create stores during the good seasons, even though hardship comes whether we expect it or not. Those stores may look like food, energy, faith, rest, or finances. So many people spend their lives chasing skill, status, wealth, or comfort, but far fewer seem to understand how to use seasons of abundance to prepare for leaner times.
But probably my favorite part of bee life is the way their society works together. Within a hive, every bee has a role. There is the queen, whose job is to keep the colony going by laying eggs. There are the worker bees, all female, who handle nearly all of the everyday, overlooked labor that keeps the hive functioning. Then there are the drones, the male bees, whose role is to mate with a queen. While I list them this way, it isn’t really a hierarchy in the way we tend to think of one. A hive isn’t built on status so much as purpose. Each kind of bee has a role, and the colony depends on all of them doing what they were made to do.
Within any human system, that same kind of structure matters. On a homestead, it may look like one person handling the cooking, another managing animal feedings, and another taking care of the finances. Not everyone does the same thing, but the place works because each part supports the others. The same is true not just in personal settings, but in professional ones as well. When one part of the system begins to break down, the strain spreads quickly to everything else.
I’m in awe of how perfectly bees reflect what a strong system can accomplish. They remind me that good things are rarely built by spectacle or sustained by grand gestures. More often, they are built by quiet work, shared purpose, and the wisdom to prepare while the season is still good. There is something deeply humbling about the fact that such small creatures can carry such large lessons. The longer I watch them, the more I’m reminded that strong lives, much like strong hives, are held together by the small things we choose to tend faithfully every single day.

I need a mental reset. The last few months have been busy, chaotic, and at times overwhelming. Everywhere I turn, it feels like the people I care about are carrying that same weight, also in need of a reset. And while I wish you could reset a person as easily as a computer, I know that’s not how it works. So lately, I’ve been trying to find small moments I can take back for myself, for my mental health, and for my well-being.
A couple of months ago, I started a Patreon. Nothing major, just another outlet where I could share the joys of day-to-day life, random thoughts, and maybe, one day, make a little money from it. With so many nights lately lost to insomnia, I’ve started doing “late night rambles.” Small, almost ASMR-style chats about mostly books. Sometimes I talk about favorite tropes, fictional characters I would defend to my death, or even books that changed my outlook on life. Nothing overly important, just things I love that let my brain take a deep breath. I don’t have any subscribers, but right now that’s not really the point. Right now, it’s just a space to focus on things that make me happy. Things that feel like a breath of fresh air.
The other day, I took the time to get out of the house and go to Barnes & Noble. While I was there, I picked up the Powerless series by Lauren Roberts, and I’m really excited to see if this book is as good as people are saying. I’ve even thought about doing a small blog or podcast series as I read through it, especially since I discovered there’s some controversy surrounding it. Back in 2015, Victoria Aveyard released Red Queen, and apparently there’s a portion of BookTok that claims Powerless is a plagiarized adaptation of it. As someone who loved Red Queen when it first came out, I’m curious to see how much of that claim holds up and how much can just be chalked up to common genre tropes.
I also did something I haven’t done in years. I logged back into Edelweiss, a site where you can request advanced reader copies (ARCs) of books before they’re released to the public. Over the years, I’ve requested a few ARCs and written reviews here and there. Well, the same Victoria Aveyard I mentioned earlier has a new book coming out. While I’m not necessarily a fan of her as a person, I do enjoy her writing. So I requested her new book, Tempest, and got an email the other day that I was approved to read and review it. I’m genuinely excited to dive into it.
The last thing I’ve been holding onto for a bit of peace is writing. Whether it’s my journal, this blog, my book, or even writing exercises with ChatGPT, those small moments where I get to create something with words bring a kind of calm I desperately need. I don’t always write anything profound, but watching a page fill up still feels like an accomplishment on the days that feel heavy. And I’ll take those small wins wherever I can get them.
On the days, weeks, months, and even years that feel overwhelming, I find myself watching my prayer list grow. I think I’m in one of those seasons right now. If any part of this week’s blog resonates with you, and you need someone to pray for you, feel free to leave a comment. We could all use a few more people lifting us up, especially when we feel tired, defeated, or a little lost.

It’s hard to ignore how many quiet battles are being fought behind ordinary smiles. I’ve watched people I love walk through things they never would have chosen. Burnout that makes getting out of bed feel heavier than it should, or test results that change the tone of a household. Bills that don’t shrink no matter how careful you are. The slow grief of watching someone’s body betray them, or the helplessness of loving someone you can’t fix. Sometimes it feels like everything is pressing in at once, trying to smother peace.
Growing up with a disability, I struggled with the why of my situation. Why did I have my disability? Why couldn’t I be a normal kid and do normal things with my friends? Why did I have limitations? Why did I have to grow up faster than my peers? Why why why…
It wasn’t until after I graduated high school that a thought occurred to me. I was retelling a story of an unpleasant experience I’d had in school when I made the observation that “If I hadn’t had my disability, I would have straight-up punched them in the face.” My mom looked at me, trying to see if I was joking. I wasn’t. I told her, “If it wasn’t for my disability, I would have been impossible.”
My disability required me to do a few things. It forced me to accept limits early in my life. It made me negotiate with my own body. And it quickly stole the illusions of invincibility. While kids my age were reaching that “rite of passage” where they got to “act first, think later”, I was stuck thinking through every decision I made before I made it. For a number of years, I resented my friends who had that privilege and didn’t appreciate it. Because while they got to believe they could power through anything and everything, I had to learn to work within reality’s confines.
As I began to look at life through the lens of my disability I started to see characteristics that I had to learn. While peers were forcing challenges aside, I was having to be patient until the problem went away or I could find another solution. While peers could flit from one thing to another to another, I had to weigh and measure my limited energy level while simultaneously learning that resting to reenergize wasn’t laziness, it’s self-care. While peers could deal with the physical consequences of forcing a situation, I was learning that control is usually a story we invent. While peers were able to bounce back from mishaps and stupid accidents, I was busy learning that not all pain is fixable, some of it gets carried through life. I don’t regret those lessons… now. Some of these lessons come with age. I had the privilege of learning them early, before they altered my life irrevocably.
At the core of my disability, I’ve learned that there are so many things I will never have control of and I need to accept that. Speaking of things I will never have control of? My body is at the top of that list. It has boundaries, and where some may be able to ignore it or push those boundaries back another day, I have to listen to them. No matter how inconvenient it may be. Sometimes that looks like adjustments, sometimes it looks like rescheduling or cancelling. But most importantly, my disability has taught me that time matters. Whether it’s making the most of “good days” when I get them, or restocking my energy reserves when I have to, time doesn’t stop for me. So I need to use it wisely, especially if I don’t want to always feel like I’m falling behind the rest of the world.
I’d love to say that I learned how to handle all of these life lessons on my own but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was blessed enough to be raised in a family that gave me a firm foundation built on faith. Without that faith, my disability would have felt like a pointless, sadistic twist of fate. While some may think that faith is a crutch, or that it makes all your problems disappear, I came to learn that it simply gave suffering context. Accepting that I am not in control of everything became infinitely easier when I stopped believing I had to be. While my disability taught me limits, my faith taught me trust.
Maybe that’s why when I see people around me wrestling with what they can’t change, something inside me breaks a little. I hope they come to see that limits don’t mean they’ve been abandoned. That suffering doesn’t mean they’re alone. My disability didn’t make me strong. It made me dependent, and in that dependence, I found something steadier than control.

It’s that time of year again. I’m sitting in my cozy house, listening to Christmas music and watching Hallmark movies. A warm cup of tea is never far from me, with delicious cookies at my beck and call that I’ll probably regret next month.
Christmas has always held a special place in my heart. As a child, I loved the presents and the lights. My family went all out. We would take the day after Thanksgiving to decorate our house and often my grandparents’ house as well, covering everything in lights and festive displays. Christmas carols by Elvis, Patsy and Elmo, Reba, and Burl Ives played as we hung bright, twinkling things around our home.
As a teenager and young adult, I craved that time with my family, especially my grandparents. Every year on Christmas Eve, after we’d finished our huge Christmas feast, we would sit down with our slices of pie and watch Home Alone or rather, we would watch my grandpa watch Home Alone. Every year without fail, he made the same comments at the same moments. Each trap Kevin set earned a heartfelt, “Oh man, that REALLY had to hurt,” each one worse than the last. It was like watching my grandpa transform into a young boy all over again, every single year.
At least once during our festivities, my grandma would sit down at my piano. With or without a music book in front of her, she would play beautiful hymns and carols. Always quietly, as if she simply wanted the music to fill the spaces between conversation. If she ever made a mistake or forgot a note, you couldn’t tell. It wasn’t meant to be a performance. It was a constant presence, gentle and grounding, never overwhelming.
​My mom was always at the heart of it all. The kitchen came alive under her hands as she prepared beautiful spreads of food, each dish arranged with care, never rushed, always thoughtful. It wasn’t just about feeding people. It was an act of love, of service, of making sure everyone felt welcomed and cared for. Her quiet devotion set the tone for the entire day, a living reminder that Christmas is meant to be an offering of ourselves to others, not just for one day, but for the whole season.
My dad, meanwhile, was rarely still. He bustled in and out, fixing, adjusting, hanging lights, making sure the outside of our home felt just as warm and inviting as the inside. He greeted neighbors with a wave, a joke, a smile that came easily and honestly. His cheerfulness and steady kindness reflected something deeper. That how we show up to the world matters. That joy, generosity, and welcome shouldn’t be seasonal decorations, but year-round practices.
As an adult, I miss the calming reassurance of so many of those moments. The smiles and laughter. My grandparents’ laughter and hugs. They were so ingrained in this holiday that without them, it feels like a different event altogether. And then I remember.
They both knew what this holiday was really about. At the core of the movies, the music, and the presents, I was always reminded that this holiday is a Holy-day. We celebrate it because God came to earth in the form of a baby, the most vulnerable form, to die for each and every one of us. That the God of the universe, the Creator of all, loved us so infinitely that He chose to come down, suffer alongside us, be beaten, ridiculed, and killed so that we would have the chance to spend eternity with Him.
He didn’t have to do that. We chose to separate ourselves from Him. We chose to sin. We choose, again and again, to push Him aside. And still, He chose to endure the pain and suffering before Him so that we, too, would have the chance to choose Him for eternity.
It’s because my grandparents knew and trusted in that truth that I know I’ll get to spend Christmas with them again. And next time, it won’t be for a season.
Next time, it will be for eternity.

As I’ve gotten older, Christmas and how I view it has changed and grown. Some years I’m fully in the spirit, and other years I’m basically squinting at the season from the corner of the room. But at the core of it all, there are small comforts that steady me, little traditions and moments that wrap themselves around my edges in the gentlest way. This year is no different.
One of my favorite things to do during the colder months is curl up on my couch in front of a crackling fire with a hot cup of tea and a good book. It’s where my introverted bibliophile soul feels most at home. The soft glow of the Christmas tree fills the room and makes the whole moment feel like the first real exhale of the day. Sometimes there’s music playing quietly in the background, the same carols I grew up with. “The Christmas Guest” by Reba still gives me chills after all these years, and playful classics like Frosty the Snowman and Percy the Puny Poinsettia pull me back into childhood without asking permission. Even the memory of that borderline-aggressive pine spray my mom spritzed onto our artificial tree still drifts through my mind. It was the kind of pine scent that announced itself the moment you walked into the room, and somehow that unmistakable smell still carries a softness that belongs to a simpler time.
There are plenty of tiny comforts I pretend I’m above, even though they absolutely make the season feel complete in ways my soul still craves. Growing up, my mom loved Christmas with her whole being. The second Thanksgiving dinner ended, the tree went up, the lights went out, and every corner of the house transformed. When we weren’t listening to music, Hallmark movies were playing in the background. Love them or hate them, there’s something about those cheesy, predictable, cliché movies that I need after a long day. I don’t care how many times I’ve seen “The Spirit of Christmas,” I still get that little breathy “ahhh…” moment when Daniel says, “Twelve days isn’t nearly long enough.” These movies are like potato chips. They’re not a full meal, but I keep reaching for them anyway.
Speaking of things I keep reaching for, I’ve learned that somewhere along the way I stopped resenting fudge season. (Mom, don’t worry, you’re not misreading this. Miracles still happen.) If you know my family, you know November and December are fudge months for us. We make twenty-seven different flavors, each with its own carefully crafted recipe. It takes time, effort, and a whole lot of counter space to prep, cook, set, cut, and wrap them. For years, the moment November hit, I’d feel that familiar sink in my stomach because I knew what was coming. But in recent years, that feeling has softened. There’s something oddly comforting about the rhythm of it now. Moving around the kitchen with my mom, Christmas music or a movie playing in the background, each flavor slowly coming together. It creates a warm, steady atmosphere that softens the pace of the season and fills the kitchen with a feeling I didn’t appreciate until adulthood.
At the end of the day, nostalgia ties all of this together. Christmas has always been the season where memory feels louder. When I look at our tree, filled with homemade ornaments from my sisters and me, little souvenirs from vacations, and tiny tributes to pets long gone, I feel that familiar warmth settle in. Childhood peace finds its way back to me every time I hear those old carols or watch Christmas cartoons like “Donald’s Snow Fight” or “Mickey’s Christmas Carol.” It’s an immediate comfort, like being pulled into a memory that still knows my name.
One of my most cherished traditions sits outside of music and ornaments altogether. Every Christmas Eve, my grandpa watched Home Alone like it was the first time he’d ever seen it. It didn’t matter how many years passed or how many times we put that movie on… he lit up the exact same way. He laughed, cringed, and cheered at all the same parts, completely delighted every single time Kevin outsmarted those burglars. I loved the movie, but I loved watching him even more. And if I’m honest, I’d trade just about anything to sit beside him and watch him watch it one more time. Even now, that memory is one of the comforts I keep returning to. A tradition that lives on, even if he isn’t here to carry it with me.
Growing up, Christmas was my favorite holiday, not because of gifts or snow, but because it brought everyone together. The day after Thanksgiving, we decorated the house inside and out. We baked fudge, cookies, and savory treats for my mom’s annual Christmas party. We caroled around town, and we played or sang in our church’s Christmas program. But at the heart of all of it, beyond the lights and carols and decorations, was our core belief in Jesus. Christmas wasn’t just a holiday for my blood family. It was a celebration shared with my Christian family, where we all set aside our differences and worries to remember that God came down in the form of Jesus to live and ultimately die so that each of us could have the opportunity to spend eternity with Him.
And that is the most comforting embrace I get during this time of year.

We’re all collectors of stories. Some are lighthearted, some carry pain, and some are given to us whether we want them or not. They end up shaping how we see ourselves, God, and the world around us. Lately I’ve been thinking about the kinds of stories I carry and how they’ve changed me.

Personal stories, t​he ones that mark us.
I still remember a middle school dance where a “friend” announced my crush to the entire school. The boy and the usual bullies took turns harassing me the rest of the night. I wanted to disappear. But then a boy I didn’t really hang out with, someone who also got picked on, walked over and asked me to dance. He didn’t try to fix it, just stayed nearby, cracked a few jokes, and gave me space to be quiet. I didn’t laugh much, but I never forgot the kindness. Moments like that carve themselves into you, not because of the pain, but because of the unexpected grace that meets it.
Not every memory stings like that one. My grandpa had a way of making space for me, even while he worked. He set up a little corner in his workshop with a table, chair, and cable so I could watch Looney Tunes while he tinkered. Every so often he would pause to teach me something. One time he saw me drawing a dog and without any adieu, turned my sketch into a wooden toy. My grandpa was good at many things, but what he gave best was his time. That was his love language, and I carry that with me still.

Inherite​d stories, the ones handed down.
The story of Job has taken on different meaning for me as I’ve grown. As a kid, I saw it as a story of a man God allowed to be tormented, and it unsettled me, especially when I felt like I was being tormented myself. Over time, I began to see it differently. Job wasn’t abandoned; he was trusted. God had such confidence in him that He allowed the enemy to spend his energy trying, and failing, to break him. That shift changed how I understood suffering.
Some stories come to us not from scripture but from the people who lived before us. My grandma loved to tell about how she and my grandpa “courted.” He drove all the way from Lind down to Yakima one Sunday morning just to go to church with her, then took her for milkshakes at the soda fountain. After that, he made the ​drive every Sunday without fail. A story like that becomes part of the family’s bones, steadfast, ordinary love told in long drives and early mornings.

Ch​os​en stories, the ones we claim.
Some stories we pick up for ourselves. Years ago, I fell into the Throne of Glass series. I devoured every release the day it came out and have reread them more times than I can count. Each time I return, I carry old versions of myself into the story, the excitement of first reads, the comfort of certain seasons. What keeps me coming back are the characters who choose to fight when everything seems lost. That has become my story too, courage in the dark.
Other stories don’t come from books but from people who live what they teach. In high school, my history teacher had us working on presidential campaign projects during the McCain–Obama election. We all knew where most of our teachers stood, but every time we asked him his opinion, he gave the same answer. “That’s not my job,” he would say. “My job is not to tell you what to think. My job is to help you learn how to find answers and to think for yourself.” Those words stuck with me. They reminded me that the best stories aren’t instructions on what to believe, but invitations to grow in how we see and understand the world. It is a lesson I have carried into my own classrooms, where my goal is not to hand students conclusions but to help them build the tools to reach their own.

Unintentional stories, the ones we never asked for.
Some stories stick to us even when we wish they wouldn’t. “You can do anything you put your mind to” used to sound like a cruel joke. But as the years passed, life itself turned it into something truer than I expected. It doesn’t mean anything comes easy. It means imagination and persistence can move mountains you once thought unshakable.
Other uninvited stories cut deeper. As a child in church, Mark 11:24 rang in my ears: “Whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.” At a summer camp, a pastor laid hands on me and prayed for healing. I was tiny, maybe six, and I believed with everything I had. And I wasn’t healed. For years afterward I wrestled with anger at God, at church, at anyone who tried to comfort me. These days I’ve found some measure of peace with my circumstances, but there are still moments when I wonder why. That story never left me, and maybe it never will.

The collection as a whole.
Together, these stories, personal, inherited, chosen, and unintentional, make up who I am. They remind me that not all stories are easy, and not all stories are happy. But each one carries weight. Each one shapes how I love, how I fight, how I trust, and how I see God.
We’re all collectors of stories. The question is, which ones are you carrying? Which ones are you ready to pass on, and which ones still have something left to teach you?

This has been another heavy week. The state of our world and our country has weighed on me in ways that feel almost unbearable. I continue to grieve the loss of humanity through Charlie Kirk’s assassination, the constant reports of shootings, the division that only seems to deepen. On top of that came the ache of sending my niece to college and the familiar grind of living with chronic pain, all while still showing up for responsibilities. It has been a week that almost made hope feel like a fragile, feeble, unattainable concept… Almost.
Sunday, my family and I watched Charlie Kirk’s memorial, and my soul needed that. Under the crushing ache of grief for our country and for humanity, there were moments that not only restored my faith in people but also reignited my own faith. The service began with Charlie’s pastor proclaiming that the answer to all of life’s struggles could be found in Jesus Christ. His short sermon ended with an invitation for anyone who wanted to accept Christ into their hearts to stand. In the silence that followed, the stadium seemed to breathe as hundreds rose to their feet. It was breathtaking.
Later, Erika took the stage and reminded “older” Christians of our duty to help new Christians grow, to nurture faith rather than let it wither. And then she gave a living example of what that looked like. With tears in her voice, she spoke of Charlie’s heart for the lost, especially young men searching for direction, and then she said something I will never forget:

Her strength undid me. Her ability to forgive, to answer hate without hate, felt like an act of rebellion against despair. A choice to hold on to hope when bitterness would have been so much easier.
The week held another goodbye I was not ready for: taking my niece to college. I cannot begin to put into words how much I love this kid. Summers glued to my side, late-night talks, and in the past four years, sharing a home as she grew from a struggling teen into a compassionate, responsible, joy-filled young woman. Somewhere along the way, she became my best friend. So watching her walk into this new chapter undid me all over again. We barely made it out of sight before texting each other how much we already missed one another. Yet even through tears, I know she is prepared. I have hope that the same character I have seen in her will only deepen as she steps into adulthood.
And then, as autumn arrives, my body has started its annual rebellion. Chronic pain flares in my knees, hips, and back, leaving me drained by the time I get home from school. Most evenings are spent either trying to dull the ache or scrambling to prepare for another day. But even so, each morning I choose to meet my students with a smile. Teaching through pain is not easy, but it is one small act of resistance: to believe that my students deserve joy and consistency even when my body would rather collapse. Some days, that is all hope looks like… showing up when you do not feel like you can.
Hope is not naïve. It is radical. It refuses to let hatred, grief, or pain have the final word. It breathes in stadiums filled with new believers, it lingers in the goodbye hug between aunt and niece, and it steadies trembling knees in the classroom. Hope is my rebellion, and I choose it.

It has been a week since Charlie Kirk was assassinated, and honestly? I feel no better today than I did the day after. If anything, I feel worse.
My emotions keep circling: calm reassurance that Charlie was a brother in Christ, and that God will use even this loss to draw people to Him. Sadness, because after years of listening to his voice, I feel like I’ve lost someone I knew, someone I would have liked to call a friend. Fear, because there are people who celebrate his death, mocking him for his beliefs, beliefs I largely share. And then anger. Anger that our country and our world have slid to a point where this is not only tolerated, but celebrated. Anger that consequences and common sense have evaporated. Anger that we have turned so far from God, from the principles this nation was built on, that hatred and death are embraced as if they were virtues.
With all of that roiling inside, I still had to plaster on a smile. I have had to return to teaching after Charlie’s assassination, after Iryna Zarutska’s murder, after the Evergreen school shooting, on the anniversary of 9/11, and in the middle of conflict in my own school. And tomorrow, as I ache preparing to send my niece, my best friend, off to college, I will have to smile again.
When students ask how I am doing, I force myself to say, “Today is going to be a great day because I am going to make it one.” When they tell me they openly wept after watching the video of Charlie being shot, I have to keep my response “school appropriate” and “not political or religious.” What I want to say is: it is okay to cry. I have cried, too. A man was assassinated. They should have never been exposed to that. The world is dark, and I cannot promise it will get better soon.
But I can also say, at least here, that I have peace and hope in Christ. Even in the middle of hatred, violence, and uncertainty, I know He has a plan. I cannot hand that same peace to my students because it is not considered professional. So instead, I try to be a light. A sliver of hope. And I pray that somehow, through me, they glimpse the love of God.

Today began like any other. I went to work, came home for lunch, and scrolled on social media during my break. That’s when I saw the headline: Charlie Kirk had been shot while speaking at a university in Utah. I was stunned. I shared the news with my family and then forced myself back to the rhythm of the day. By the time I packed up from work, my phone buzzed with the confirmation I didn’t want. Charlie Kirk had died from his wounds.
Charlie married Erika Frantzve in 2021. Together, they welcomed a daughter in 2022 and a son in 2024. Wherever you stand politically or theologically, whether you agreed with him or not, at the end of every day, he was a husband and a father. If you doubt that, scroll through Instagram or TikTok and search “Charlie Kirk as a father.” Beyond the debates and the headlines, his children are innocent. And they were just robbed of their dad. They will grow up with photos, videos, and secondhand stories instead of having their father read them bedtime stories and tuck them in at night. They will hear their mother speak of his faith, his convictions, his laughter… but they will never feel the weight of his arms around them as they drift to sleep. A man’s political voice may echo in history, but for a child, it is the absence of his presence that leaves the deepest wound.
In our hyper-connected world, it is too easy to forget that public figures are more than their sound bites. We see a fraction of a life and imagine we know the whole person. We reduce them to icons, hashtags, or punchlines, stripping away their humanity. Yes, Charlie Kirk often said things that sparked controversy, things that made their way into duets and reaction videos. But that does not erase the truth that he was a living, breathing human being who loved and was loved.
As I write this, fact-checking and sourcing, I want to be clear. Too many articles describe his death with headlines like “Charlie Kirk shot,” or “Charlie Kirk dead after campus shooting.” That phrasing flattens the reality. He was not simply shot. He was assassinated. Murdered. This was not an accident. A gun did not go off by mistake. A person loaded, aimed, pulled the trigger, and took his life by choice because of disagreement with his words. When we soften that truth, we underplay the horror of political violence. And when voices online frame such violence as justified, we invite it to happen again.
On TikTok, Instagram, and Facebook, reactions flood in. Many, friends and strangers alike, are offering condolences. Yet far too many respond with cruelty: laughter emojis, comments that he “deserved it,” even praise for the shooter. A friend posted about Charlie’s death, and someone replied with mocking words and celebratory scorn. This should chill us. We have reached a point where cheering for murder feels acceptable to some. It does not matter whether you are Democrat or Republican, Christian or Atheist, Muslim or Jew. We are all human beings. We all bleed. As a Christian, I believe every life is sacred, and watching others treat life as disposable breaks my heart.
At approximately the same time, Evergreen High School in Colorado faced its own shooting. No lives were lost, but students were wounded, classmates traumatized, and families shaken to their core. Hallways that should have been filled with ordinary noise and laughter were instead marked by fear. And again, the debates swell over gun control, blame, and politics. But before all that, before the shouting, we must say what this is: attempted murder. Violence carried out by individuals, not inanimate objects. Violence born from hearts steeped in anger and hate.
Our culture is breaking. And yet, it is not beyond repair. But if we continue celebrating violence, excusing cruelty, and mocking the dead, we risk losing more than lives. We risk losing our humanity. I pray I never live to see that day. But prayer must be met with action. If we want to slow this descent, if we hope to nurture compassion and empathy again, then we must be willing to embody those things. I must be willing to embody them.
Because at the end of the day, whether we agree or not, every one of us is flesh and blood. Every one of us is loved by God.
Tonight, I pray for Charlie Kirk’s family. I pray for the Evergreen community. I pray for those mourning not only loss of life but the loss of dignity and humanity in how that life is treated. And, hardest of all, I pray for the ones who pulled the trigger and for those who cheer them on.
We need a return to humanity. Without it, we will not only lose lives. We will lose ourselves.

The past couple of weeks have felt like juggling fire while standing in a construction zone… literally. Our school is still being revamped, I’m scrambling to get everything ready for back-to-school, and the August heatwave has been relentless. In the middle of it all, I’ve found myself clinging to small things that calm the chaos: routines, humor, moments of rest, and perspective.
Over the last couple of years, our school has been under construction to help bring us into the 21st century, making the building safer and more energy-efficient. With school starting next week, many staff, myself included, have been trying to get into the building to set up classrooms, prep student Chromebooks, and tackle all the other details that come with back-to-school. The problem is that much of the building is still in disrepair. Rooms are filled with construction gear, ceilings are open with ventilation and electrical unfinished, there’s no air conditioning, and the dust is everywhere. (To be clear … they should be done next week, Monday or Tuesday.) In two of my rooms, crews are still actively working. The few times I’ve stepped in, all of my things have been shifted around, leaving me unable to find what I need. I’m doing my best not to panic, but at the end of the day, life itself often feels like a construction zone, unsettled and unfinished.
Navigating back-to-school in these conditions requires skills that aren’t usually part of the process. Normally, patience is something I extend to students and staff as we all adjust to a new year. Right now, I’m practicing it in excess and asking others to offer it back to me as I juggle under less-than-ideal circumstances. Adaptability has become essential. I can’t set things up the way I’d like, so I’ve had to change my approach. I spent at least a week making sure my curriculum was fully digitized so that, when the time finally comes to set up physically, I can focus on the classrooms themselves. The truth is, life rarely gives us perfect conditions. Growth and progress come from learning to adapt, even when things are far from ideal.
In the middle of the dust and disarray, I’ve leaned on anchors that steady me. Routines keep me grounded, especially my planner. Some days I use it to map out tasks ahead, other days I record what I’ve accomplished. Watching the pages fill reminds me that I am making progress, that the chaos does mean something. I also rely on humor. You know the phrase, “You have to laugh, otherwise you’ll cry”? As cliché as it sounds, it’s true. Sometimes it’s a silly meme I scroll past, or something hilariously out-of-the-blue my niece says. Rest is another anchor, though it doesn’t come naturally to me. I’ve started blocking it out in my planner as a reminder that “me time” deserves as much space as the work that piles up. In those moments of rest, I find perspective: my success and value aren’t tied only to what I accomplish. Work matters, but it can’t be the whole of life.
What I’ve learned through this process is simple: construction zones are messy, but they’re temporary. And at the end of the day, they’re signs that something new is being built or something old is being repaired. The dust will settle, and the growth will be worth the mess.