On the morning of August 27, I was doing some work from home when I looked down at my phone. A text from a friend I haven’t seen in a while flashed across the screen: “I saw there is a shooting at your son’s school. Is he okay?”
My heart stopped. My blood ran cold. And still, I thought, “This is a mistake.”
A quick Google search confirmed my worst fear. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t breathe. Words jumped out like “mass casualty” and “20 people shot.” Everything was blurry, but the horror was unmistakable. There had been a shooting at Annunciation Church, where my 4-year-old son was inside with his preschool class.
The next 15 minutes were the longest and most traumatic of my life. As I rushed past neighbors in my building, hyperventilating and sobbing, trying to get to the car, praying to God and telling myself that I had to accept whatever the outcome, I finally received a call from my son’s teacher. My baby was alive and unharmed. All I could do was cry into the phone.
The relief that came did not erase the truth or the terrified feeling in my body that still has not left. My son had lived through a school shooting before he even entered kindergarten. That will forever be part of his story—and mine, his father’s, his grandparents’, his aunts’ and uncles’, and his cousins’, all of whom sat by the phone not knowing if he was alive or dead.
My family was spared the worst possible outcome. I don’t pretend to carry the grief of those whose children were injured or killed. My heart aches for them, I pray for them each day, and it’s for their sake as much as my own that I cannot accept how quickly this city shrugs and moves on.
But what haunts me almost as much as that day is what we refuse to talk about.
The young man who opened fire on a church filled with children wasn’t simply “evil in a vacuum.” He is the product of a culture that preys on pain and confusion. Instead of being lifted out of despair, people like him are too often encouraged to double down on it. Media, peers, parents, and broken systems feed lies into vulnerable hearts, and those lies bear fruit in hatred. Why are we not talking about this?
Instead, within hours, our mayor stood before cameras, not to grieve with parents or reckon with the sickness in our community, but to turn tragedy into a platform for divisive ideology. While family members were still waiting for phone calls, our leaders chose tribalism and talking points.
And right on cue, the familiar chorus rose: gun control. I understand the anger. I understand the desperate desire to “do something.” And yes, in some contexts, limiting access or restricting certain weapons might prevent a tragedy. But it is not the answer. My child was spared physical harm that day, and I would never minimize the grief of parents who didn’t get to tuck their child into bed that night. But they, more than anyone, deserve more than reflexive solutions. Evil doesn’t vanish when you remove its weapon of choice.
The truth is, we live in a society unraveling spiritually. Where godlessness is not only normal, but trending. Where truth is optional and everybody gets to have their own. Where sacrifice is mocked and self-indulgence is praised.
I see it in other ways as well. We live in a culture that defends convenience over the value of life. We debate whether children are worth the sacrifice of time, money, career, sex appeal, and “self-care,” as if their very existence is a burden. If this is how we treat life in its most innocent form, how can we possibly stand for it when confronted with despair and death?
The problem is not only guns. The problem is us. Our spiritual decay. Our untruth. Our refusal to name evil and confront lies with truth. Until we face that, shootings will not stop.
What Minneapolis families need is not quick fixes or partisan soundbites. We need leaders who tell the truth and name violence for what it is: evil. We need communities that hold people accountable instead of excusing destructive choices. And we need faith—not as a campaign line, but as a lifeline, a foundation strong enough to carry families through despair as well as joy.
I cannot accept that my child’s earliest memories will include gunfire, screams, and barricaded doors. And I cannot accept that we keep offering excuses when what people need is transformation.
Annunciation must be a wake-up call. This is about more than safety or policy; it is about the soul of our city, our state, our country, who we are as people, and more importantly, who we are as parents. Without truth, accountability, and faith, darkness will define our children’s future. I will not surrender to that. And neither should you.
The views and opinions expressed in this commentary are those of the author and do not represent an official position of Alpha News.
