The Target We Can’t See

I have been in combat, and I know what it looks like when a sniper takes their time, lines up the shot, and squeezes the trigger. You don’t forget the aftermath. It isn’t clean, like Hollywood tries to convince us. It’s final. Brutal. And it’s meant not only to stop one man but to terrify everyone else.

That’s what I thought about when I saw Charlie Kirk’s murder. It stank of training.

Whoever pulled the trigger wasn’t some fool pulling shots at random. They wanted a ripple effect, wanted fear, and if I’m honest, for a moment, it worked.

I felt the old war-drum pounding in my chest. Rage, sorrow, the sense that we were getting defiled.

I wanted to grab my boots, my rifle, and my youthful back—and hunt evil down until it stopped twitching. But then I remembered: life doesn’t pause for our fury.

That doesn’t mean it gets easier.

Grief is a strange thing—it’s both sharp and dull. Sharp when the news first hits, then dull as it sits with you, heavy as wet wool on your shoulders.

Rage, though, rage is seductive, as it promises relief, even victory, but it’s a liar. I know that too, because I carried it around in my younger days.

In combat, they tell you a sniper’s bullet is for two people–the man who falls, and the men who freeze afterward. The living carry that wound in their heads, and if they don’t stitch it up quick, it festers.

That’s why I have to laugh a little—even through my sadness—because if the shooter thought they killed Charlie Kirk and our spirit in one clean motion, well, they didn’t factor in human stubbornness. Especially American stubbornness.

We’ve got this peculiar gift for grieving out loud, sometimes clumsily, sometimes angrily, but always together. We argue, we shout, we stomp around on social media, and then, somehow, somebody cracks a joke that shouldn’t be funny but is—and suddenly, the spell gets broken. Then we find we’re no longer paralyzed.

That’s what I cling to.

The truth is, the real sniper these days isn’t hiding on some rooftop. It’s despair.

It picks us off from inside, whispering that nothing matters, that all is lost, that the fight is too big. The only way I know to beat it is to keep moving, keep laughing, keep telling stories, keep showing up for one another—even when we’re tired, especially when tired.

I’m not naïve. Evil is real, bullets are real, and people like Charlie don’t come around every day. His death is a wound, but it isn’t the end.

If I’ve learned anything in this long, crooked life, it’s that death never gets the final word. Not if we refuse to let it.

So I’ll grieve. I’ll even let myself rage for a while.

But I won’t let that sniper have me, not in soul and not in spirit. The way I see it, the best revenge is to live so stubbornly, so joyfully, that evil can’t stand it.

And that’s the shot I’m willing to take.