When the Pen Fails

Today, my pen refused me.

Every word I tried to write came out like gravel, sharp-edged and bitter-tasting. My hands shook not from too much coffee, but from sorrow, rage, and that kind of helplessness that makes you want to punch a hole in the wall.

Someone murdered Charlie Kirk.

And no matter how you feel about the man, he was still a man–a husband, a son, a friend, flesh and blood with a heartbeat given by God. His death wasn’t just a headline; it was a human life cut short. And I’ll admit it–the news made me want to stop being a pacifist and start sharpening pitchforks.

But here’s the thing about rage–it burns hot, quick, and dirty, and once the flames settle, it leaves behind nothing but ash. That’s where I found myself today–standing knee-deep in ash, wondering what good my anger would do.

Like many others, I turned to social media for support. I shouted at the screen, banged the keys, and posted words so heavy they could have sunk a battleship.

I even lost my cool with an old friend in England, Ashley Slater. Poor guy didn’t deserve to be called a “liberal dung heap,” though at the time it felt like justice served fresh out of the oven.

Later, I cooled down and apologized. Common sense whispered in my ear, “If you lose your friends in your fight for truth, who’s left to talk to?”

I think about what the media said, how they twisted words before Charlie’s body was even cold. They framed him like a caricature, a “polarizing figure” instead of a breathing soul.

And that made my blood boil all over again. But I remembered something my mother once told me when I was spitting mad at the world: “You can’t fix a broken window by throwing more rocks at it.”

So I sat down, took a deep breath, and let my heart write what my hands couldn’t, because there is a day coming where good men will do bad things.

Having been trained to hold fast under fire, I cannot remain in a defensive position forever. Fortunately, the battlefield I face today isn’t one of rifles and fighting holes, but of words, patience, and faith.

And let me tell you something funny–because the Lord knows we need a chuckle in dark times. While I was pounding out angry posts, Buddy, my old dog, snuck into the kitchen.

When I finally looked up from the screen, there he was, tail wagging, muzzle coated in powdered sugar. He’d stolen half a dozen donuts off the counter and looked as guilty as a politician caught with both hands in the cookie jar.

I laughed so hard I almost forgot what I was mad about. Almost. But that laugh reminded me–life is still here, still present, still waiting for me to choose joy over despair, kindness over cruelty, hope over hate.

Charlie’s death makes me want to fight, yes, but maybe the fight isn’t with fists or guns or insults. Perhaps the fight is with the small, daily choice to remain morally human in a world that is pushing us toward being monsters.

So tonight, I’ll set down my sword and pick up my pen again. I’ll pray, though my heart feels like prayer isn’t enough.

I’ll remember my friend Ashley and how easy it is to scorch bridges in anger. And I’ll watch Buddy, sprawled belly-up and snoring, with donut crumbs still stuck to his whiskers, reminding me that laughter and love are still the sharpest weapons we’ve got.

God bless you, Charlie Kirk, and God, bless America, please.