On August 27, 2025, in Minneapolis, Minnesota, during what should have been the gentle beginnings of a new school year, tragedy struck with a cruelty so unimaginable that the entire world felt the tremors of its sorrow. At the Annunciation Catholic Church, where children and their families gathered for an all-school Mass, a scene that should have been filled with prayer, song, and the comfort of faith was shattered by gunfire. Parents had sent their little ones to school that morning with the same trust that generations before them had held—that classrooms and chapels were sanctuaries, places of learning and worship where children could thrive without fear. But that day, as sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows, bullets rained down instead. A gunman, armed with a rifle, a shotgun, and a pistol, opened fire on innocent worshippers. The stillness of prayer was replaced by screams, shattered glass, and the chaos of violence.
Two children—8-year-old Fletcher Merkel and 10-year-old Harper Moyski—lost their lives in that instant. Fourteen more children, ranging in age from 6 to 15, were wounded, along with three elderly parishioners who had come to Mass that morning. Though doctors say the survivors will recover physically, everyone knows the deeper truth: the emotional and spiritual scars left behind may never fade. A community that gathered in faith was left broken in fear. Parents who sent their children to school to grow in faith and knowledge instead had to face the unimaginable task of identifying bodies, of watching their children cling to life in hospital beds, of holding hands that might never be the same again.
I heard this news on the very same day my daughter Lani received her certificate of proof of loss of U.S. citizenship. I can still see the joy radiating from her face as she clutched that document at the U.S. Consulate. For her, it was not just a piece of paper; it was liberation, a final step toward closing one chapter and embracing another. She was so relieved, so happy, and I felt that same relief with her—like we had walked into a safer, freer space. Yet, at almost the same moment, news broke from Minnesota that children—just like her once upon a time—were dragged into the depths of terror and violence while sitting in church, of all places. How cruel life can be, to let me watch my daughter rejoice in freedom while other parents were being crushed under grief. My heart broke wide open for them. Their joy had been stolen. Their futures altered in a blink. I could not stop praying for them then, and I cannot stop now.
When I try to imagine what those grieving parents must be going through, I almost cannot bear it. To lose a child—your heart, your hope, your flesh and blood—is unthinkable. Even picturing it for a second makes my chest tighten. To know your child will never again run into your arms, laugh at your table, or make their dreams known—that is the kind of grief that breaks a person into pieces. And for those parents whose children survived but are now scarred, physically or emotionally, the pain takes a different but equally cruel shape. The helplessness must be overwhelming: sitting beside a hospital bed, watching monitors beep, hoping, begging, that your child makes it through. It is enough to undo anyone. If anything like that happened to my own children, I would be a basket case. I would crumble entirely. My world would lose all meaning.
And it is precisely because of that awareness—the fragility of children’s safety in America—that I am grateful beyond words that Ed and I made a promise early in our marriage. When we were still living in America, before our children were born, we looked at the world around us and quietly agreed: if we were ever blessed with children, we would return to Singapore before they reached school age. We wanted them to grow up safe, to have the kind of childhood every parent dreams of for their child—one free from fear. By God’s grace, we were able to keep that promise. When our oldest was ready to start kindergarten, we packed up our lives and crossed the globe. It wasn’t an easy decision—no move of that magnitude ever is—but it was the best one we ever made.
In Singapore, I never had to wake up to nightmares about school shootings. I never had to worry about sending my daughter off to school and wondering if she would return alive. I never had to fear my teenage daughter walking home after dark, or my son being kidnapped in broad daylight. I never had to think about bullet-proof backpacks or evacuation drills designed to prepare children for gunfire. I never feared that a casual trip to the mall could end with us caught in a shooting spree. My children had the gift of being children—innocent, carefree, and safe. They laughed, played, and grew without the heavy burden of worry hanging over them. I cannot express enough gratitude for that. Every time a tragedy like this appears in the news, I thank God we made that move when we did. And yet, even in my gratitude, I weep for the countless families who did not and do not have that option.
It is devastating to think that in a country like America—wealthy, powerful, and proud—children are being taught how to survive school shootings. That parents shop for bullet-proof inserts as though they were just another school supply, as normal as pencils and notebooks. That little children practice lockdown drills instead of simply learning how to read and write. What kind of life is that? What kind of society accepts this as normal? Children should be learning multiplication tables, not survival tactics. They should be giggling at recess, not hiding in closets and trying to stay silent in the face of simulated gunfire. It is wrong. It is heartbreaking. And it should not be tolerated any longer.
This is why my heart burns with both sorrow and frustration. I cannot help but ask: if leaders like Donald Trump can bend amendments and policies to benefit themselves, why has no one in power had the courage to truly confront the Second Amendment? Why has no one said, “Enough is enough,” and pushed for real change? The right to bear arms should never outweigh the right of a child to live. It should never be placed above the sanctity of innocent lives. If Australia could act after one tragedy and abolish guns, why can’t America? If other countries around the world can create safer environments by placing limits on weapons of war, why can’t the supposed “land of the free” do the same? How many more children need to die before something changes?
The problem is not unsolvable. It requires courage, compassion, and the willingness to prioritize people over politics. It requires waking up to the reality that no amendment, no lobby, no right to carry a weapon is more sacred than the life of a child sitting in a pew, holding hands in prayer, or laughing in a classroom. America needs to wake up. Wake up to the blood on its streets, the tears in its classrooms, the fear in its families. Wake up before another Fletcher, another Harper, is taken too soon.
As a mother, as a Catholic, and as a human being, I pray fervently for healing—for the children who survived, for the parents who lost their precious ones, for the teachers, priests, and communities scarred by this horror. I pray that those families are surrounded by love and comfort, that God cradles them in their sorrow, and that they somehow find the strength to carry on. I pray also for America itself—that this tragedy not be just another headline that fades, but a turning point that awakens leaders and citizens alike to demand change.
Every life lost is a call to conscience. Every tear shed is a plea for reform. Every innocent child’s name should be remembered not just with grief, but with action. I may live far from America now, and my children may never have to practice those lockdown drills, but I will never stop praying for the ones who do. I will never stop lifting up those families in my heart. And I will never stop urging America: wake up. Let this be the moment when words turn into action, when prayers are matched with policy, when love for children finally outweighs love for guns.
Until then, I hold my children close, grateful for their safety but mindful of the pain others carry. I whisper prayers for Fletcher, for Harper, for every wounded child, and for every parent shattered by loss. And I pray for a future where no parent, in America or anywhere else, ever has to fear that sending their child to school or church could be the last goodbye.
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