Author: Tom Darby

It has taken far too long to piece together the truth about the Sacramento shooter who targeted an ABC affiliate. That delay wasn’t accidental.

From the start, details about the incident were quietly buried, scrubbed from the internet, or mentioned only in passing before disappearing altogether. In an age where newsrooms pounce on stories, spinning them into partisan narratives, the near blackout on this one says more than the shooting itself.

Yes, a Sacramento television station—an ABC affiliate owned by Tegna—got fired upon in broad daylight. Three bullets struck the station’s lobby, forcing an immediate lockdown and a 9-1-1 call to law enforcement. At the time, journalists speculated whether this was another episode of California’s rising violent crime problem or, more ominously, political violence.

And then—almost instantly—the story evaporated.

Why? Because the suspect, it turns out, was not the kind of criminal the media wanted to talk about.

The shooter is Al Hernandez Santana. He isn’t some random street criminal. Santana is part of California’s political machinery. He once served as chief legislative staffer for the powerful California Federation of Teachers, one of the largest and most influential unions in the state. He also worked as a state appointee on the Indian Health Board and has a history of political activism.

His résumé alone should have kept the story alive for weeks. A former top union lobbyist arrested for firing into the offices of a media outlet?

It should have been front-page news nationwide, but instead of digging into his background, most media outlets dropped the story altogether. The same industry that can’t stop lecturing about the dangers of “political violence” suddenly lost its appetite upon learning that the shooter is a far-left operative with deep ties to California’s Democratic establishment.

In the hours after the attack, national outlets did what they always do after a shooting–breathless coverage, live shots from the scene, and soundbites from police promising accountability.

NBC reported: “Tonight, gunshots fired at an ABC-affiliated television station in Sacramento. Bullet holes were seen in the window of the lobby. An employee of the Tegna-owned station telling NBC News someone pulled up, fired into the lobby, and drove off.”

But after the suspect’s arrest, coverage shifted quickly. Suddenly, reporters lost interest in a motive. Networks pivoted toward safer ground—commentary about Jimmy Kimmel’s suspension, speculation about Disney’s corporate politics—anything to avoid the uncomfortable fact that the shooter wasn’t a right-wing extremist but rather a union insider with a documented history of far-left political rhetoric.

Within days, the story became a local footnote. Search results online became increasingly sparse. To find the details now, one must dig through archives, press releases, and cached versions of deleted articles. The mainstream press has performed a quiet erasure.

Santana’s social media history makes his motives hard to deny. He posted openly hostile comments toward conservatives, including grotesque remarks wishing death on Donald Trump and mocking Charlie Kirk after Kirk’s assassination.

Santan is not a man who randomly snapped. His actions were those of a politically motivated individual who directed his fury at a news organization following left-wing protests over Jimmy Kimmel’s suspension. The attack was, in every sense, political violence.

Yet the same outlets that dedicate days of coverage to “right-wing threats” couldn’t spare more than a passing mention here. The hypocrisy is staggering. When violence fits their narrative, it’s headline news. When it doesn’t, it disappears.

Perhaps more disturbing than the media blackout is the response from California officials. After Santana’s arrest, he was allowed to post bail—despite firing into a building full of journalists. For politicians who never tire of lecturing about “common-sense gun laws,” the silence was deafening.

Releasing an armed political extremist back onto the streets is not “justice reform.” It’s negligence, coddling, and a deliberate refusal to acknowledge the danger posed when violent activists are treated as harmless simply because their politics align with those in power.

Only when the federal Department of Justice intervened was Santana taken back into custody under federal charges for interfering with a licensed broadcaster through violence. If not for that, he might still be free today.

The case highlights a broader problem: America’s media is a gatekeeper of narratives rather than a seeker of truth. The press leaps to cover shootings when the suspect might be conservative, Republican, or a Second Amendment advocate, even making it up, as in the case of CNN and MSNBC. But when the attacker is a left-wing union lobbyist with ties to California’s political elite? Silence.

The silence isn’t harmless. By refusing to acknowledge violence when it comes from the left, journalists create a warped perception of reality. The public gets told over and over that political violence is a one-sided problem, when in fact it isn’t.

Even more ironic is that journalists themselves were the victims here. An ABC affiliate got targeted with gunfire. Yet the same media class that usually rushes to play the role of martyr chose to bury the story because it didn’t fit their preferred storyline.

There’s a bitter irony in watching media outlets coddle pro-crime politicians and then becoming victims of the very lawlessness they excuse. It’s reminiscent of the San Francisco crew whose news van got burglarized while they were covering thefts in the city. They were shocked—shocked!—that criminals would target them.

But why wouldn’t they? Reporters have spent years pushing the narrative that criminals are victims of circumstance, that law enforcement is oppressive, and that bail reform is “compassionate.” Now, those same policies put journalists in the line of fire. Literally.

Yet even after being targeted, the press can’t bring itself to confront the ideology that fuels this violence. Instead, the media retreats into silence, protecting the very forces that endangered them.

This story isn’t just about one man with a gun. It’s about the culture of cowardice that dominates California politics and media alike. It’s about a system where violent extremists are given second chances because of their political affiliations. It’s about a press corps so beholden to partisan narratives that it cannot even defend its own colleagues when violently attacked.

The public deserves honesty. Political violence is unacceptable, whether it comes from the right or the left. But until the media acknowledges that fact, we will continue to live in a distorted reality where some victims get mourned loudly while others get brushed aside.

Journalists should be the loudest voices demanding accountability in this case. Instead, they’ve gone quiet. Politicians should be outraged that a politically connected activist opened fire on a news station. Instead, they rushed him through the revolving door of California’s broken justice system.

The question isn’t just why this story disappeared—it’s why we allow such disappearances to happen at all. A free press that suppresses inconvenient truths is no free press at all.

Until the media stops sweeping inconvenient facts under the rug, and until politicians stop excusing criminals who share their ideology, incidents like this will continue. Next time, we might not be so fortunate, and someone could be injured, or worse.

There’s an old saying that’s been floating around since my granddad’s day: “You can tell a lot about a man by the way he treats his enemies.” If that’s true, then right now we’re in a heap of trouble.

Because let’s be honest—nothing makes the headlines faster than folks whooping and hollering over somebody else’s misfortune. Even death, that most solemn and unavoidable appointment, has somehow turned into a spectator sport for people who ought to know better. It’s enough to make a fella want to shut off the news, lock the front door, and retreat to the back porch with a tall glass of iced tea and a Bible.

But here’s the rub: as tempting as it is to wag our finger at the folks celebrating and call them every name under the sun, Jesus didn’t give us that option. He laid it out plain as day—love your enemies, bless those who curse you, pray for those who spitefully use you. Now, He didn’t say it would be easy. He just said it was necessary.

I’ll tell you right now, praying for people who cheer at death is tougher than trying to get a cat to take a bath. My instinct is to stomp around, mutter under my breath, and maybe even compose a very un-Christlike letter in my head. But then that still, small voice sneaks in and reminds me, “Son, their hearts are just as broken as yours, only twisted in another direction.”

And that’s when I realize something. These folks aren’t celebrating because they’re whole. They’re celebrating because they’re hurting. Hatred is often just pain with its Sunday clothes on.

So what’s the remedy? Not more shouting, not more division, not more smug “we’re right and you’re wrong” speeches. The only medicine that works on a heart twisted with hate is forgiveness mixed with prayer.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Forgiveness isn’t approval. It doesn’t mean we pat folks on the head and say, “Good job cheering for death.” That’d be nonsense. Forgiveness means we put down the heavy sack of bitterness we’ve been dragging around and hand it over to God. It’s His job to judge hearts, not ours.

I remember once when my boy was little, he and a neighbor kid got into a shouting match over who got to use the red toy truck. The neighbor boy stomped home in a huff, and my son sat on the porch sulking. After a while, he asked me, “Dad, why do people act like that?” I thought about it for a minute and said, “Because we forget we’re supposed to love each other more than we love winning.” He nodded, then wandered off to play with the blue truck. Kids get it faster than adults sometimes.

And maybe that’s where we are now—squabbling over who gets to feel righteous, forgetting that love is the only victory worth winning.

So here’s my prayer: Lord, forgive them. Forgive us. Heal the wounds in our country that keep bleeding every time someone falls. Remind us that death is not a scoreboard–it’s a sorrow. And teach us that no matter how deep the divide, Your grace can still build a bridge across it.

Friends, I don’t know if this will change the world overnight. Probably not. But it just might start changing us. And maybe that’s enough for today.

Because at the end of the day, we’re all going to face our Maker. And when that day comes, I don’t want to be remembered for how clever my insults were or how loudly I cheered at someone else’s fall. I want to be a man who, even when it was hard, tried to pray instead of curse, forgive instead of fume, and love instead of gloat.

That, I reckon, is the only remedy worth taking.

Britain is witnessing one of its most extraordinary political meltdowns in modern times. In the space of three days, Prime Minister Keir Starmer’s flagship policy on digital identification has triggered mass public resistance, a leaked royal meeting has upended centuries of constitutional protocol, and his own words about the monarchy have left Labour MPs openly discussing whether he can survive the week.

The scale and speed of the crisis are without precedent in British politics. What began as a petition against digital ID cards has snowballed into a full-blown confrontation between the government, the Crown, and a public suddenly galvanized in ways Westminster had not anticipated.

On September 25, the parliamentary petition “Do not introduce Digital ID cards” had just over 100,000 signatures. That figure was significant enough to require a government response, but far from record-breaking. Everything changed a day later when Starmer formally announced plans for a mandatory “BritCard” system by 2029—an all-digital identity card required to prove the right to work and access public services.

The backlash was instant. By the evening of September 26, the number of signatures was beyond 1.1 million. The following day, momentum intensified even further, with over 6,800 signatures collected in just one hour on Saturday morning, and by late afternoon, the total approached 2 million. As of Monday, September 29, the number had reached 2,545,086 and was continuing to increase.

Only five petitions have passed a million signatures in the past decade. The most notable was the 2019 petition to revoke Brexit, which peaked at over six million signatures. Observers suggest that the current anti-ID campaign could potentially break that record.

Opposition has come from across the spectrum. Reform UK leader Nigel Farage denounced the proposal as “un-British.” The Liberal Democrats, privacy campaigners at Big Brother Watch, and grassroots groups such as the Together Association have all condemned the scheme. Critics argue the plan would criminalize the digitally excluded and hand the government unprecedented powers over daily life.

Symbolic protests have already sprung up. A pub in Merseyside rebranded itself the “George Orwell,” projecting Starmer’s face across its façade with the caption “1984.” On social media platform X, activists urged the public to push the petition to 5 or 6 million signatures, framing the campaign as a stand against “a future where every part of our lives is monitored.”

Starmer defended the BritCard as a necessary modernization to secure borders and streamline services, but polls suggest his message is not landing. A recent survey found 63 percent of Britons distrust the government’s ability to safeguard digital ID data. The Scottish Government has voiced opposition, and even some Labour MPs are uneasy.

As the petition gained momentum, another story broke—one with even more explosive consequences.

King Charles III held a private two-hour meeting at Windsor Castle with Nigel Farage and senior members of Reform UK on September 26. The gathering violated three centuries of royal convention: monarchs do not meet opposition leaders outside the established parties, and certainly not in closed-door sessions with political strategists.

The meeting might never have become public had it not been for a leak. According to palace insiders, the revelation did not originate with Reform UK but from within Starmer’s own party. Disaffected Labour MPs, frustrated with the prime minister’s leadership, allegedly exposed the encounter to weaken him further.

What made the story truly seismic were the King’s reported words during the session. While discussing Reform UK’s policy paper Restoring Britain’s Democratic Foundation, Charles allegedly remarked:

“Perhaps it’s time for fresh thinking in Westminster. The current path seems unsustainable.”

Thirteen words. But in Britain’s delicate constitutional balance, they were dynamite.

According to cabinet sources, the leak sent Starmer into a rage. At an emergency meeting, he allegedly slammed his fist on the table and shouted:

“If Charles wants to play politics, I’ll show him how the game is really played. The monarchy serves Parliament, not the other way around. He’s forgotten his place.”

Education Secretary Bridget Phillipson later told colleagues the tirade escalated further. Starmer reportedly dismissed 300 years of constitutional tradition as “old men in fancy clothes playing dress-up” and vowed to confront the King directly.

Within hours, his remarks were public. The backlash was immediate and ferocious. Social media erupted with #DefendTheCrown trending worldwide. Memes depicted Starmer as Oliver Cromwell or under a guillotine. A viral video from a retired Liverpool teacher captured the mood: “I supported Labour through Thatcher, through Blair. But attacking our King? That’s not the Labour Party I know. That’s not Britain.”

Polls Collapse, Party Cracks

An emergency YouGov poll conducted within 24 hours revealed that 73 percent of Britons thought Starmer had gone too far. Labour’s approval rating plummeted from 42 percent to 28 percent overnight. By September 29, support had dropped further to 26 percent.

Inside Labour, chaos reigned. A WhatsApp group titled “Damage Control” swelled to over 40 MPs. Discussions quickly shifted from messaging strategies to potential successors. Deputy Prime Minister Angela Rayner, Chancellor Rachel Reeves, and Shadow Home Secretary Yvette Cooper were all floated as alternatives.

Veteran MP Diane Abbott summed up the mood: “In 40 years, I’ve never seen a leader self-destruct like this. He’s taken a wrecking ball to our credibility.”

Cracks in the cabinet soon became fractures. Transport Secretary Louise Haigh resigned, citing “irreconcilable differences” with Starmer’s stance on the monarchy. Two junior ministers followed. Reeves remained conspicuously silent, fueling speculation she was preparing a leadership bid.

While Labour imploded, rivals capitalized. Farage framed Reform UK as the defender of Britain’s institutions. Flanked by Union Jacks outside party headquarters, he declared, “While others attack our King, Reform UK stands with the Crown. While others tear down our traditions, we defend them. While others forget what it means to be British, we remember.”

The optics were powerful. Reform UK reported a 400 percent surge in membership and record donations within 72 hours. Polling put the party at 24percent—just two points behind Labour and within striking distance of becoming the official opposition.

The Conservatives also seized the moment. Leader Kemi Badenoch condemned Starmer’s “complete disrespect for our constitutional monarchy” and insisted the crisis showed Labour could not be trusted with the foundations of democracy. Party strategists privately admitted they could not have scripted a better scenario.

Through it all, King Charles III has remained silent. Constitutional experts say this restraint has strengthened the monarchy, as the leak has elevated him in the public eye. Far from diminishing his authority, the controversy has underscored the monarchy’s enduring symbolic power.

The spectacle has drawn global attention. Canada’s Justin Trudeau offered diplomatic support for “the role of constitutional monarchy in parliamentary democracy”—widely interpreted as a rebuke to Starmer. Australia’s Peter Dutton was more blunt, branding the prime minister’s comments “disgraceful.”

In the United States, cable networks replayed clips of Starmer mocking “old men in fancy clothes,” with anchors shaking their heads at Britain’s turmoil. For a country once viewed as a bastion of political stability, the images were sobering.

With Labour polling at 26 percent, the Conservatives at 32 percent, and Reform UK surging to 24 percent, the UK’s political map is shifting rapidly. Starmer faces a mounting internal rebellion, with backbench MPs drafting no-confidence letters and senior colleagues maneuvering for succession.

Meanwhile, Farage has never been closer to mainstream legitimacy. For the first time, Reform UK appears poised to overtake Labour as the primary opposition force.

For now, the monarchy stands taller than ever. In a crisis sparked by just twelve words, Charles has reminded the nation—and the world—that Britain’s ancient institutions still carry immense weight.

Whether Starmer can survive the week remains an open question. What is clear is that the digital ID petition, the Windsor leak, and the prime minister’s fury have combined to create a political earthquake—one that may reshape Britain’s future for years to come.

Northern Nevada’s once red-hot housing market is showing signs of serious cooling, and in some places, outright distress. Towns that staked their futures on Tesla’s Gigafactory and the promise of high-tech growth are now confronting a sobering reality: fewer jobs, too many houses, and a wave of automation that is hollowing out entire communities.

The slowdown is particularly affecting Sparks and Fernley. Both communities rode the wave of tech-fueled optimism, adding thousands of homes and apartments in anticipation of explosive growth. But with job cuts, automation, and declining demand, the region’s housing bubble appears to be deflating—and fast.

Sparks: Growth Without People

Sparks, often described as Reno’s scrappy younger sibling, spent the last decade rebranding itself as a growth engine for Northern Nevada. Developers rushed to build, putting up 8,500 new housing units in just four years. City leaders justified the expansion with projections tied to Tesla’s Gigafactory, Panasonic’s battery plant, and the Switch data center.

On paper, it was a compelling story: the Gigafactory was supposed to employ 10,000 people. In reality, current employment has plateaued around 5,500, and recent rounds of cuts suggest that number is shrinking. Panasonic has automated most of its operations, reducing the need for workers. And Switch’s data center—an imposing presence just east of Reno—requires surprisingly few employees to keep its servers humming.

“Everyone assumed these were job magnets,” said one Sparks-based realtor. “But you don’t need a thousand people to watch robots build batteries or to keep a server farm running.”

That mismatch between expectations and reality is showing up in the housing market. The glut is especially acute in the luxury apartment sector, where developers bet heavily on an influx of high-paid workers. Instead, many buildings struggle to keep tenants.

The Fountains at Victorian Square reports a vacancy rate of nearly 30 percent. Marina Vista, another high-end complex, is offering three months of free rent to lure renters. Meanwhile, The Metropolitan, a downtown Sparks development once marketed as a crown jewel, just sold for 40 percent less than it cost to build.

“When apartment complexes start selling at a loss, it’s not just a red flag,” said an industry analyst. “It’s a warning siren for the single-family market.”

The financial implications extend beyond private investors. Sparks borrowed heavily against future property tax revenue to fund roads, schools, and utilities sized for a city twice its current capacity. If property values tumble, the town faces a brutal choice: raise tax rates or cut services. Either path risks further depressing values.

“It’s a death spiral with casino lights,” said one longtime resident.

Fernley: The Bedroom Community That Never Woke Up

If Sparks is wobbling, Fernley is teetering.

Fernley, located about 30 miles east of Reno, is positioned as an affordable suburb for Gigafactory employees. Here, workers can purchase larger homes at lower prices while commuting to the Tahoe-Reno Industrial Center.

For a while, the story held. Builders broke ground on sprawling subdivisions like Desert Springs, Copper Mountain, and Victorian Ranch. Fernley’s population surged, and so did optimism. Local leaders spoke confidently about new schools, bustling retail districts, and a thriving community life.

But as Tesla trims staff and Amazon automates its Fernley warehouse, the foundation is cracking. The city of 23,000 currently has more than 2,100 homes for sale, an astonishing figure for its size.

“Drive through Fernley today and it’s like a monument to optimism gone wrong,” said a broker who specializes in Lyon County. “Brand new houses with nobody in them. Community centers with no community. Parks where the only things playing are tumbleweeds.”

The developer of Victorian Ranch has already filed for bankruptcy protection, leaving parts of the subdivision unfinished. Other projects are seeing 40% of their phases unsold, a stark contrast to just a few years ago, when houses were being snapped up before construction even finished.

The retail that was supposed to follow never really materialized. Instead, Fernley has a cluster of marijuana dispensaries, a scattering of fast-food outlets, and a proliferation of storage facilities—seven and counting.

The housing numbers paint a bleak picture. The average time on market has ballooned to 127 days, compared with just 34 days last year. Price reductions are piling up.

One seller who listed a home at $485,000 has cut the price five times, now down to $399,000. Despite an 18% drop, there are still no offers.

“It feels like Black Friday out here,” said another agent. “Except nobody’s buying.”

A Region Built on Assumptions

The slowdown highlights a vulnerability in Northern Nevada’s economic model. City planners, developers, and investors alike banked on sustained tech-driven growth. They assumed workers would flood in, fill new homes, and fuel a self-reinforcing cycle of prosperity.

Instead, automation is undercutting demand. The very companies that drew national attention to Reno and Sparks—Tesla, Panasonic, Amazon—are now proving that the facilities don’t necessarily translate into large workforces.

“Everyone forgot that technology is designed to replace people,” said a housing economist. “The Gigafactory was never going to need 10,000 employees for long.”

The consequences ripple outward. Empty apartments in Sparks put pressure on landlords to slash rents, which in turn drags down property values. In Fernley, unfinished subdivisions and unsold homes signal distress that could reverberate through the broader market.

If current trends continue, the wave may not stop at Fernley or Sparks. Communities like Spanish Springs, Dayton, and Silver Springs may face similar challenges as builders pursue demand that has diminished.

What Comes Next?

Local officials face unenviable decisions. Sparks must either raise taxes to service debt or cut spending to balance its books, each option carrying political and economic risks. Fernley, with fewer resources, may find itself leaning heavily on Lyon County for support.

For homeowners, the outlook is equally grim. Those who bought at peak prices in 2021 and 2022 are now staring at the prospect of negative equity. Industry insiders warn that foreclosures may increase if job losses persist and refinancing options remain unavailable.

“This isn’t just a market correction,” warned one housing analyst. “This is the unraveling of an entire growth story that was built on shaky assumptions.”

Not everyone is ready to dismiss Northern Nevada just yet. Some believe that lower prices could attract retirees, remote workers, or Californians looking for more affordable housing. However, this transition may take years, and in the meantime, both residents and investors are preparing for the potential challenge.

As one Fernley homeowner put it while standing outside a for-sale sign in front of his neighbor’s empty house: “We were promised Silicon Valley with mountains. What we got is a ghost town with mortgages.”

I’ve been saying this for years—if you wouldn’t speak it to your mama at the dinner table, your boss in a Monday morning meeting, or even the government man with his clipboard, then don’t post it online, because nothing is private, not even that “anonymous” comment you typed while hiding behind a cartoon profile picture.

Every word is a seed, and sooner or later, what you plant will grow, and most folks get this–even the people with twisted thoughts usually know enough to keep their thoughts to themselves.

We call it a filter, the little pause button God installed between our brain and our mouth, or our typing fingers.

You stop, you think, and you ask, “Is this kind, wise, or am I about to unleash evil into the world?”

But some folks today?

The filter between the mouth and the brain is busted.

It’s like trying to make coffee with a spaghetti strainer.

Everything pours straight through, and each person fails to recognize evil even when it is staring them in the face, especially when it’s dressed in the colors of their own tribe.

That’s why we’ve got people out there celebrating the death of a man, laughing and cheering as if it’s a football game. That’s a soul with its compass pointing straight into the abyss.

See, words don’t just float around harmlessly. Words justify actions but cover for violence.

James wrote in Scripture that the tongue is like a spark that can set a whole forest on fire. And he didn’t have X or Facebook.

The problem isn’t just politics. It’s deeper than that.

It’s a moral sickness. People who can’t tell right from wrong, call evil “justice” and cruelty “truth.”

They honestly believe hatred makes them righteous. And when you can’t see evil for what it is—especially when it’s coming from your own side—you’re not just lost, you’re blindfolded and walking toward a cliff.

The Bible said it would happen.

Now, I’ll admit, it’s tempting to fight fire with fire. To swing back twice as hard, spit out the same kind of venom, but that’s not the answer.

Jesus didn’t say, “Love your neighbor, unless he posts something nasty about you.” He said, “Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.”

That doesn’t mean we roll over and pretend evil is good—it means we confront evil without letting it poison our own hearts. So, filters matter, not because we’re trying to be fake or polite for the sake of appearances, but because they’re part of accountability.

A working filter says, “I know my words can wound, so I’ll choose them carefully.”

A broken filter says, “I’ll say whatever I feel, no matter who it destroys.”

Guess which one builds up society and which one burns it down?

Our words at the end of the day reveal our moral compass: Are we pointing toward light, or stumbling toward darkness, sowing peace, or scattering sparks that’ll burn someone else’s house down?

So here’s my simple advice, which I’ll repeat until I’m blue in the face–Before you hit “post,” imagine Jesus, your grandma, and your boss all reading over your shoulder: if you wouldn’t say it in front of them, don’t say it at all.

Because one day, we’ll all give an account—not to Facebook, not to the government, not even to the family dinner table—but to God Himself, and I’d rather hear Him say, “Well done, good and faithful servant,” than, “Why did you spend your days lighting fires with your tongue?”

I was walking down the street the other day, minding my own business, when a fellow in a pickup leaned out his window and hollered something at me that wasn’t exactly a blessing from the Beatitudes. I couldn’t make out all of it, but I caught enough syllables to know I wasn’t getting invited to Sunday supper.

Now, my first reaction was the same as yours would be—cheeks flushed, fists clenched, and a dozen witty comebacks marching through my brain like an army with fresh boots. It’s funny how our tongues can outpace our common sense by about three football fields when we feel slighted.

But then, like an old hymn sneaking into my head, I remembered Jesus’ words: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

That’s Matthew 5:44. I don’t know about you, but I usually prefer the verses about God being my shepherd or my refuge. “Love your enemies” feels like it was slipped in by mistake, maybe as a test to see if we’re paying attention.

The truth is, Jesus meant it. He wasn’t just correcting the Pharisees for their stiff-necked reading of the law.

He was calling us all to something higher, and holier—God’s kind of love. A love that doesn’t just stop at “Don’t cuss back at the guy in the pickup,” but pushes us to pray for him, wish him well, maybe even wave without using all five fingers if you catch my drift.

And that’s where it gets uncomfortable, because the world doesn’t applaud this kind of love. We learn to defend ourselves, clap back, cancel, or strike first.

But Jesus says, “No, take the better way. Don’t just avoid evil—overcome it with good.” (Romans 12:21)

I thought about that as I kept walking home. Somewhere between the corner store and my mailbox, I realized that if God shines His sun on the evil and the good alike (Matthew 5:45), maybe I could at least manage a prayer for a stranger with a loud mouth and a rusty muffler.

After all, who knows what kind of day that poor soul was having? Maybe he just got bad news at work, or his dog ran away, or he’s just the kind of person who thinks shouting insults is a sport.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t cost me much to whisper, “Lord, bless him anyway.”

Christians sometimes get painted with a broad brush as angry, hateful, or judgmental. And sure, some loud voices fit that caricature, but I’ve also known countless believers who live quiet lives of love—delivering meals, forgiving debts, showing up at hospital bedsides, loving people who don’t love them back. Those folks rarely make headlines, but they make heaven smile.

That’s the better way. It isn’t pie-in-the-sky. It’s shoe-leather faith. It’s making the choice—sometimes daily, sometimes minute by minute—to let Christ’s love outpace our temper.

Does it mean we become doormats? No.

Jesus never told us to ignore justice or stay silent in the face of real harm. But He did instruct us to forgive, to refuse revenge, and to pray for those who cut us deep, which isn’t a weakness, but strength measured in mercy.

So here’s my challenge, to myself first and then to you–the next time someone hollers, mocks, or mistreats, try the better way. Pray for them.

Bless them in your heart. Forgive before being asked.

If nothing else, you’ll walk home lighter, freer, and maybe with a story worth telling. Because love—real love—always leaves you stronger than hate ever could.

And who knows? Maybe that fellow in the pickup will get home, sit down in his recliner, and wonder why the guy he insulted just waved back and smiled.

Stranger things have happened on the road to heaven.

I’ve been officially retired according to the federal government for only ten days, and I’m already tired of this life. And I cannot see it getting any better.

It’s not that retirement snuck up on me. I had decades of advance notice.

A steady job, long hours, a payroll department dutifully withholding from every paycheck—every month a reminder that someday Uncle Sam would pat me on the head, hand me a monthly stipend, and say, “Go on now, enjoy your golden years.”

I pictured fishing, naps, reading books without falling asleep on the first page, and long drives with no destination in mind. I imagined I’d finally catch up with myself.

What they don’t tell you is that catching up with yourself is a surprisingly exhausting race. You’ve spent your life building a schedule, getting up at the same time, walking the same path, measuring your days by other people’s clocks.

When that’s all stripped away, the day yawns at you like a wide, empty parking lot. I used to complain about meetings, but now I’d give anything for one to have someone tell me where to be and what to do.

On Day One of retirement, I woke up at 4:00 a.m., like always, because the body doesn’t know what the government knows. It was a cool, dark morning, and the neighborhood was silent.

I sat at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and no reason to hurry. The first hour was lovely. The second was nice. By hour three, I had cleaned out the junk drawer, reorganized the spice rack, and begun alphabetizing my old receipts. When my wife came into the kitchen at nine, I was leaning on the counter, staring at the toaster. “You’re up early,” she said. “Not really,” I told her. “I’m still on Day One.”

By Day Four, I had created a routine: I would wake up, drink coffee, stare at the ceiling, walk around the block, open the fridge, close it, and then open it again to see if anything had changed.. Retirement, I decided, is just working without pay, working at finding ways to fill time.

Everyone tells you retirement is a reward. What no one says is that it’s also a test. A test of patience. A test of imagination. A test of how long you can stand your own company without starting an argument.

The one thing saving me is my morning radio show, Monday through Friday. Without those hours on air, I think I’d lose track of what day it is—or worse, start talking back to the refrigerator. That show keeps me from unraveling completely.

On Day Five, my neighbor Larry—retired two years before me—invited me to join him for morning pickleball at the community center.

“It’ll keep you young,” he said. “Keeps the reflexes sharp.”

Pickleball, it turns out, is just tennis for people who’ve accepted they’re not as fast as they once were. The court is smaller, the ball is slower, the rules are looser.

You’d think it would be easy, but it isn’t. My reflexes weren’t just dull—they were practically on life support.

We played for forty minutes before I collapsed on a bench, gasping like a goldfish on a dock.

Larry looked as fresh as a daisy. “You’ll get used to it,” he said. “After a few weeks, you’ll feel like a new man.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to feel like a new man. I wanted to feel like my old self, the one who could do a day’s work and still have the energy to mow the lawn.

On Day Six, I decided I needed a project. Retired people always talk about “projects.”

Build a birdhouse. Paint a fence. Write a memoir.

Something to make the hours stack up in a way that feels like a life. I went to the hardware store and bought lumber, nails, and a new hammer.

I built a birdhouse so lopsided that no self-respecting bird would move in. It looked like a condemned property.

I tried again, but the second one was worse. My wife suggested maybe the birds wouldn’t mind.

“They’re not paying rent,” she said. “They’re not picky.”

On Day Seven, I began writing a list of things to do, thinking a list would make me feel productive. “Make list” went at the top.

By the time I got to “Refill coffee” and “Check mail,” the list had already lost its luster. Retirement, I realized, is a little like being a teenager again–no money, no schedule, and an alarming amount of time to wonder what you’re supposed to do with your life.

I tried reading. I used to fantasize about days spent in a chair, a good book in one hand, a cool drink in the other.

But when you’re working, reading feels like a treat. When you’re retired, it feels like homework.

I tried napping, but naps are sweeter when stolen from a busy day. When the whole day is yours, lying down at two in the afternoon feels like giving up.

By Day Eight, I was muttering to myself. “You’re too young for this,” I said. “Find something to do.”

The houseplants were starting to look nervous. Even Buddy avoided eye contact.

On Day Nine, I returned to the hardware store to return the hammer. The clerk asked why.

“Too much responsibility,” I said.

He nodded like he’d heard it before.

That afternoon, I ran into Larry again. He was leaning on his fence, sipping lemonade. “How’s retirement treating you?” he asked.

I told him the truth. He laughed so hard he spilled lemonade on his shirt.

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “You’re just in detox. You’ve been running on other people’s schedules for decades. Takes a while to come down. You’ll find your rhythm.”

“I hope so,” I said. “Because right now my rhythm feels like a funeral march.”

“You’re looking at it wrong,” he said. “Retirement isn’t the end of work. It’s the beginning of doing your own work. No bosses, no deadlines. Just you and the clock.”

“That’s the problem,” I said. “Me and the clock aren’t on speaking terms.”

“Start small,” he said. “One thing a day. Write a letter. Call an old friend. Take a different route on your walk. Don’t try to fill the day. Let the day fill you.”

I thought about that for the rest of the evening. It sounded suspiciously like common sense, which I’d avoid on principle.

On Day Ten—today—I tried Larry’s advice. I woke up at 7:30 instead of 4:00.

I didn’t make a list. I didn’t build anything.

I sat on the porch with my coffee and just watched. The sun came up over the trees. A squirrel attempted a daring leap from one branch to another and missed, hanging upside down by its back feet before scrambling up again, unhurt but embarrassed.

Around noon, I called my son. We talked for an hour about nothing and everything.

By the end of the call, I felt better, not because I’d accomplished anything, but because I’d remembered something: retirement isn’t about stopping. It’s about shifting gears.

I still don’t know if I’m ready for this life. But maybe the point isn’t to know.

It could be that the point is to keep trying things until something fits—like a new pair of shoes you break in over time. Maybe retirement isn’t a prize or a punishment. Perhaps it’s just another stage, like adolescence, like parenthood, like all the other stages we bumble through until we figure them out.

I don’t have a plan yet. But tomorrow I’m going to try baking that pie. And the day after that, maybe I’ll go back to pickleball, or take a drive to nowhere in particular. The days aren’t going anywhere. I don’t have to fill them. They’ll fill me if I let them.

And who knows? Maybe one of these mornings I’ll wake up and realize I’m not tired of retirement anymore.

Eighteen days out now, and I’ll be honest—my words feel about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. I’ve tried jotting things down on scraps of paper, muttering to myself in the truck, even pacing around the kitchen with a half-empty cup of cold coffee.

Still, nothing comes close to easing the hurt folks are carrying. And truth be told, I can’t seem to patch up my own heart either.

Grief has this way of sticking to you, like burrs after walking through a dry field. You brush some of them off, but a few manage to cling in places you can’t quite reach. It doesn’t matter if you’re strong, faithful, or the kind who jokes through funerals—you still find yourself tugging at that ache in the middle of the night.

I’ve noticed that everyone seems to handle it differently. Some folks are angry, stomping around, and blaming anybody within shouting distance.

Others go quiet, like they’ve misplaced their voice. And then there are the ones who keep baking casseroles, because when words fail, food doesn’t.

I call that love in a Pyrex dish.

Me? I write.

I keep thinking maybe I’ll stumble across a sentence that acts like a salve. Something folks can rub on their sore hearts and feel just a little better. But most of what I scribble looks like the notes of a distracted sixth-grader—half-finished thoughts, arrows pointing in every direction, and doodles of stick men fishing.

It hit me yesterday that maybe the reason I can’t find “the right words” is because there aren’t any, at least not from me. Words alone can’t fix the kind of hole left behind when someone’s life gets taken so suddenly.

But presence can. Prayer can. A simple phone call can.

Sometimes just sitting beside somebody and saying, “Yeah, I’m hurting too” is the closest thing we get to holy ground.

I learned this lesson the hard way one morning. I stopped by a little diner, ordered my usual, and the waitress, who’s as cheerful as a bird at sunrise, looked worn-out.

I asked if she was okay. She shook her head, and tears started pooling before she could stop them.

I froze, because I sure didn’t know what to say. Then, right on cue, I spilled my coffee—half a cup right into my lap.

Ouch!

She laughed. I laughed.

And for a moment, her shoulders eased. I didn’t solve her problem.

I didn’t preach a sermon. I just managed to be human at the right time, and maybe that was enough.

That’s the thing about grief. It makes us think we have to come up with grand answers, some thunderbolt of wisdom that’ll straighten everybody’s spine. But sometimes what’s needed is just to be clumsy enough, silly enough, or so tender that someone else remembers life isn’t all sorrow.

Jesus said, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

He didn’t say how or when that comfort comes. Sometimes it arrives like a hymn that stirs your memory.

Sometimes it’s in the silence of prayer. And now and then, it comes in the form of spilled coffee and a shared laugh.

So here we are—four days out. Still hurting.

Many of us are struggling to find footing on a floor that won’t stop shifting. I don’t have a tidy bow to tie around this pain.

I don’t even have enough words to patch up my own. But I do know this–God has a way of showing up in the cracks, in the awkward pauses, in the small kindnesses we clumsily give each other.

Maybe that’s the best we can do right now. Let ourselves hurt, let others hurt, and keep showing up anyway—with prayers, casseroles, laughter, and the occasional coffee stain.

Because healing doesn’t happen in a rush, it’s slow, like dawn sneaking up over the mountains, bit by bit, until one morning you realize the dark has lifted enough to see the road again.

And when that day comes—and it will—we’ll walk it together.

I saw a man get shot. Not in some faraway warzone, but right here in the land of amber waves of grain and free refills at the diner. He was speaking his mind—exercising that precious First Amendment, the one we like to brag about when we talk about how free we are.

Then, in a crack louder than any firecracker on the Fourth of July, the man’s voice went silent.

Now, I don’t pretend to be a philosopher. I’m more like the kind of guy who thinks too long about whether ketchup belongs in the refrigerator or the pantry.

But in that moment, if a man can lose his life for speaking his mind, what business do I have surrendering my right to defend myself? The First Amendment and the Second Amendment—they’re not siblings that live in separate rooms.

They’re roommates, sharing the same roof of freedom. One guards the other.

I’ve heard all the polite debates, the clever soundbites, the lectures on “needs” versus “rights.” Folks will say, “You don’t need a gun.”

Well, I don’t need a pickup truck either, but try hauling a load of firewood home on a bicycle.

“Need” isn’t the question. Freedom is.

That man I saw—he didn’t need to say what he said, either. He could’ve stayed home, eaten a sandwich, watched a ball game, and kept his opinions to himself.

But freedom isn’t about what you need. It’s about what you choose, and when someone pays the price for using his voice, I know I’ll never give up the means to protect mine.

Now, I ain’t some wild-eyed Rambo type. I don’t sleep with an AR under my pillow or fantasize about running through the woods in face paint.

I did that. It wasn’t as fun as I thought it would be.

I’m the kind of fella who double-checks the sink to make sure it ain’t dripping. I lock my doors, say my prayers, and hope tomorrow’s weather won’t mess with my joints, but I also know evil doesn’t make an appointment before it shows up.

My granddad used to say, “An armed society is a polite society.”

It was his way of saying that good folks don’t go looking for trouble, but it doesn’t hurt to be ready when trouble comes looking for you.

And here’s where it gets tender–I don’t want my wife to feel scared walking from the car to the grocery store at night, my son or daughter-in-law wondering if the world is so dangerous that words can kill. I want them both to know that there’s still a backbone in this old Republic, and that backbone is the God-given right to stand tall, speak freely, and, if pushed, defend life itself.

I also want them to know I’ll defend them and their rights to my death, if needed.

We get told nowadays that holding onto these rights is somehow unkind, that it makes us dangerous. But I don’t buy it.

I’ve seen enough to know the dangerous people are those who believe rights are negotiable, like a coupon allowed to expire. That’s not freedom, that’s management, and I don’t need a manager for my liberty. So, I refuse to give up my Second Amendment, because I refuse to give up my First.

The day I watched a man die for speaking, I remembered something bone-deep–rights ain’t protected by wishful thinking, but secured through responsibility, courage, and sometimes, sadly, steel. So, I’ll keep my voice, and I’ll keep my arms.

And I’ll keep the faith that this messy, noisy, sometimes violent, but always beautiful experiment called America is still worth defending. And for the record, ketchup belongs in the refrigerator.

Some things are just common sense.

It hit me like a 99-mile-an-hour fastball from Rollie Fingers, right square between the eyes, while tucked in warm and cozy under the covers. We are all gnawing at our fingernails, worried sick about who blocked us, who canceled us, who whispered our names in some digital dark alley where reputations go to die.

All because we dared say we abhor violence against one man. But here’s the kicker—that very man was permanently canceled by an assassin’s bullet.

And yet, here we sit, fretting like middle-schoolers who just found out someone unfollowed them on Instagram. Do we really think the unfriending, the muting, the digital thumbs turned downward, are blows against our existence? Meanwhile, history rolls on, collecting bodies and names, whether we “liked” them or not.

As Alfred E. Neuman used to grin from the cover of Mad Magazine: “What, me worry?”

There’s a kind of wisdom in that buck-toothed fool, a wisdom we’ve misplaced. Somewhere between writing our posts and checking three times a day who’s still reading them, we’ve forgotten the plain truth–nobody gets out of this world alive, and the exit door doesn’t ask if you went viral on your way through.

That man who caught the assassin’s bullet? He had opinions, sure.

Some loved him. Some loathed him.

But the bullet didn’t care. The man was canceled without appeal, without arbitration, without even the chance for a rebuttal post.

One moment: here. Next moment: gone.

Now, I’m not saying words don’t matter—they do. I’m not saying voices don’t matter—they do.

What I’m saying is maybe we’ve confused noise with meaning. Just because you can hear yourself echo in a digital canyon doesn’t mean you’re shaking the mountains. Most times, it means you’re yelling at your own reflection.

Here’s where the humor sneaks in—because you have to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it. Picture it–you, me, all of us, anxiously refreshing our screens like gamblers pulling levers on slot machines, waiting for the jackpot of validation.

Meanwhile, outside, the dog is wagging its tail, the coffee pot is sputtering, and the sun is climbing over the horizon as it has every day since long before Zuckerberg grew his first pubic hair.

Life is still happening, and we’re missing it while counting who didn’t clap for our performance. I wonder—what would Alfred Neuman say to a culture that panics if a stranger doesn’t hit the “like” button?

Probably something like, “Grow up, kid. Get a sandwich. Pet a dog. Don’t sweat the block button.”

I’m not a cynic. I’m not shrugging at violence or injustice. I’m saying we need to put both things in their proper place.

A bullet that ends a life is tragic beyond words. A block button that silences a voice is annoying, maybe even unfair, but it’s not the end of the world.

The real tragedy is when we confuse the two. Because once we do, we give away our joy, our humor, our tenderness to the tyrants of technology.

And they don’t need bullets—they only need us to care too much about being canceled. So tonight, after jotting this down, I think I’ll crawl back under those covers and let Alfred Neuman whisper in my ear one more time, “Who, me? Worry?”

And maybe tomorrow I’ll do something wild, like live my life without checking whether anyone approves of it. Because the best answer to a world obsessed with cancellation is to be cancelable.

And if someone doesn’t like that? Well, they can go ahead and hit the block button.

I’ll still be here, sipping coffee, petting the dog, and waiting for Rollie Fingers to throw me another fastball of thought.