When fear becomes so normalized that we call it “daily life,” something is deeply broken.
It’s just another day in Memphis. Another shooting. Or two. Or five. It’s gotten so familiar we’ve stopped flinching. The news cycle barely has time to keep up. It’s no longer a question of if there will be violence—it’s a matter of where, when, and who.
But I never imagined I would casually, unintentionally, predict a man’s shooting to his face. And that I’d be right.
It was an ordinary day. I was visiting my son’s house, where my main job—one I take very seriously—is to entertain my grandchildren. Somewhere between squeals of laughter and sorting puzzles, a pest control salesman knocked on the door. Young guy. Polite. Friendly. I told him my son wasn’t interested, but we chatted for a minute.
Before he left, I asked him something that had been weighing on me lately.
“Do you ever worry about your safety, going door to door?”
He smiled, shrugged, and said no—not really.
I smiled back. “Well, stay safe,” I said. “Too many guns, too much anger out there.”
I thought it was just small talk. I had no idea it would come back to haunt me.
He walked away. I closed the door. And just like that, he was gone from my mind—another passing stranger, another forgotten moment. I went back inside to my grandkids, where joy still lives in the corners of the world.
But the next evening, my blood ran cold.
A pest control salesman had been shot.
Approaching a house.
In Memphis.
He was now in critical condition.
I froze. Could it be him?
I don’t know for sure. The news didn’t say his name. But the timing, the job, the area—every part of it lined up. Whether or not it was the same man, it felt like my offhand words had become some kind of horrible prophecy.
The woman who shot him didn’t mean to. She didn’t target him—she was simply afraid. Afraid of what might be on the other side of the door. Afraid of who might come next. So she fired, blindly. Through the door. And a stranger collapsed.
Even her fear doesn’t surprise me anymore. That’s the part that hurts the most.
We’ve built a world where paranoia now masquerades as preparedness.
We hide behind locked doors and digital cameras.
We stock up on guns like they’re groceries.
We flinch at every knock.
We shoot first—sometimes without even opening the door.
And somehow, this has become “normal.”
We say we’re protecting ourselves. But what we’re really doing is feeding the very thing we’re afraid of: fear itself. We’re turning homes into fortresses and neighbors into threats. We’re teaching our children that safety requires suspicion.
What happened wasn’t just an accident. It was a symptom. Of a culture where violence is no longer shocking—it’s expected. And we’re all just praying not to be next.
I pray for the salesman. I pray he survives. Physically, at least.
But mentally?
Spiritually?
That recovery may take much longer—if it ever comes at all.
And I pray for Memphis. For this country. For the world.
That somehow we’ll remember how to trust again.
How to open our doors without fear.
How to live like neighbors instead of combatants.
But some nights… I wonder if God is still listening.
Or if He, like so many of us, has simply turned away—closed the door, pulled the blinds, and stepped back from the mess.
Maybe He’s taken the stance we deserve:
You broke it. You fix it.
And honestly? I wouldn’t blame Him.
But still, I’ll keep praying.
Not because I expect divine intervention.
Not because I think He owes us anything.
But because if we stop praying, we stop believing it can get better.
And the moment we stop believing—it’s not just bullets that tear us apart.
