By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
I do not know if it is prudent for me to write this week. My heart is brimming with emotions so strong I can scarcely hold them in, and I am unsure if letting them spill onto the page is wise. Yet here I sit, fingers on the keys, unable to stop myself from saying what presses within me. I cannot promise coherence or completeness—I may not even be capable of sorting every thought. This may be shorter than usual, or longer. All I know is that what follows comes from a place of passion I did not realize I carried, a fire burning fierce and unrelenting.
Lately I have witnessed far too many disheartening things. I fear that part of me has taken to filing them away in some mental drawer, tucked out of sight to avoid dwelling on the grim ills of our world. That is wrong of me. I should not allow important matters to slip past my attention. But this week, one life-altering moment has seared itself into my mind, and no drawer exists deep enough to hide it.
I did not begin the week expecting to witness an assassination. Who ever does? The news cycle had already weighed me down, but then, while casually scrolling social media, I came across a video. I saw the familiar face of a political figure I respected, admired, and followed. Without glancing at the caption, I tapped to hear what he was saying. Instead, I watched him die. Violently.
In an instant, I saw a life end before my eyes. At first I convinced myself it must be some vile AI fabrication—surely no one had actually captured such a thing. But as I scrolled frantically, the sickening truth closed in. It was real. The horrific details left no hope of survival. I had not meant to see it, but now it replays endlessly in my mind. The blood—too much blood. This was the kind of gore that belongs only in films, never in life. Yet it was real, and I will never unsee it.
This was no ordinary celebrity with a passing fan base. He was a political activist who welcomed his opponents to speak, who sought common ground wherever it could be found. He urged his followers to treat dissenters with dignity. He was not the blowhard stereotype of modern politics; he was its antithesis.
And he was young—only thirty-one. His knowledge was remarkable: law, the Constitution, economics, history, the writings of the founders, Scripture—he spoke of them with eloquence and authority. He could dismantle any argument with reason, yet never with scorn. Above all, he was a man of faith, living daily as though it were the truest treasure he possessed. His mission was not merely to debate, but to share truth with whomever he could.
I know I may sound as though I’m painting a saint’s portrait through rose-colored glass, but I am not exaggerating. Those who maligned him often did so without knowing him, basing their disdain on out-of-context snippets or secondhand caricatures. A moment of honest research would reveal the integrity behind his words and the baselessness of the slanders.
Of course, many disagreed with him, and disagreement is their right. But to celebrate his murder? That I cannot fathom. I can think of figures with whom I have not a single point of agreement, and yet never would I wish them butchered before their spouse and children. Yet here we are.
The thing about a good, wise, and peaceable man being struck down is that it kindles a flame. Those who shared his convictions cannot now remain silent. A line has been crossed, and the reverberations of this death will echo for years. Someone once said that when an emperor dies, his reign ends; but when a martyr dies, his reign begins.
May this agonizing loss become the moment we awaken to the call to stand firm in what we believe, even unto death. A precedent has been set. May we have the courage to live—and if it comes to it, to die—with the same steadfastness.
Prose and Possibilities 