A Loss Close to Home

Thank you, Laura Kessler on Unsplash, for this setting sun over a Minnesota lake

A loss close to home

I had planned to write about relationships this week. About tending to the weeds in our personal gardens—the old patterns or beliefs that get in the way of connection or personal growth. But I can’t write that today. My heart is somewhere else entirely.

This past weekend, Minnesota lost Representative Melissa Hortman and her husband, Mark. They were murdered. There’s no softening that word. Their lives were taken—violently, senselessly—and the ache of it digs deep.

This is also a moment to acknowledge that Senator John Hoffman and his wife, Yvette were also repeatedly shot by this same gunman and are recovering from their injuries.

Melissa and Mark Hortman were taken from precious children and other family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues who will miss them deeply. This violence that has reached into our collective home will forever have a ripple effect on the lives of these two families and all who love them and hold them close.

This is a post about pain

About how it feels when violence pierces our community. About the grief of losing fellow humans and neighbors who gave so much to the public good. Sadly, it’s also about the shock and revulsion of hearing our national leaders, entrusted with the care of and responsibility toward all of this country’s citizens, choose mockery and division over dignity and compassion. This is indeed part of the pain.

Don’t we each have a story about deep pain, something we believed was nearly impossible to get through? And when that deep pain is present—enveloping even—is when we call on family and friends to offer comfort and care. It’s when we hold compassion and are grateful for each other. It’s when we share our humanity and fragility and honor their preciousness.

To write about this loss

I struggled with whether to write this. I haven’t written about Ukraine or attacks on Gaza and in the Middle East. I haven’t written about the attacks on DEIB or the atrocities and terrorization being inflicted on immigrants—and now also upon the people who are trying to help them. All of these sufferings matter and are worth speaking out about and fighting for.

But I write today because this happened in Minnesota. Because I lost someone here. Because we all lost someone here. Because violence arrived in our backyard. And because staying silent felt like abandoning something sacred.

And I believe I’m not alone in that. Maybe you’re feeling it too—that heavy space in your heart that cries and screams THIS IS SO WRONG! Maybe you didn’t know Representative Hortman, but you respected her. Maybe you didn’t agree with everything she stood for, but you saw her as someone who showed up and served. Maybe you’re just tired of the hate, the cruelty, the heartlessness that has permeated too many conversations.

You’re not alone.

What do we do with all this?

We pause. We grieve. We let ourselves be human. We are not powerless, even if we feel that way.

We remember that grief is not weakness—grief is what love looks like after a loss. If you feel sad or angry or heavy, those are not signs of being too sensitive. They are signs that you’re still connected to the human family.

And maybe, in this moment, we also look inside and ask ourselves questions like these:

• Where have I let myself become numb?

• Where have I held back kindness?

• Where have I let someone else’s pain go unacknowledged?

These questions aren’t meant to call anyone out. They’re meant to call everyone in. This is a moment to evaluate ourselves with honesty and compassion. And then to make our next collective moments count toward a better humanity.

A plea for kindness

We have to do better. Not in any loud or performative way. But in the everyday, human, ordinary, “Hi neighbor!” way.

We need to speak more kindly. Act more gently. Walk at least a mile in one another’s shoes. Look kindly into the eyes of not strangers, but friends we haven’t yet met. Say “I’m sorry for your loss” and mean it and feel in our bones the burden of their loss.

We all need these everyday kindnesses. And we need to offer them to each other and to ourselves. Without reservation or hesitation or judgment.

Every moment of every day, we get to choose how we show up in the world—coldness or care, distance or dignity, contempt or compassion. Let us choose to lead with kindness.

This remains heavy on my heart

This post isn’t my usual. It’s not a metaphor. It’s not a how-to sheet. It’s not even a polished reflection. It’s just what’s on my heart. I couldn’t write about weeds and relationship dynamics when something so devastating had happened here in Minnesota.

I didn’t want to say nothing. Silence can sometimes feel like complicity. And I wanted, at the very least, to add one small voice to the chorus of grief and honor and heartbreak and love.

I don’t know the right words. But I know Melissa and Mark Hortman mattered. Their loss matters. John and Yvette Hoffman matter. The families, friends, neighbors, and colleagues of these families matter. And how we respond to our collective and individual pain matters.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. If you’re grieving too, I see you. If you’re not sure what to do next, maybe start with this: Smile genuinely at everyone you encounter. Speak with kind, understanding, and inclusive words. Offer a safe and gentle touch on the hand or shoulder.

And then keep going—with compassion.

Compassion—something this world needs more of every moment of every day.