When Tragedy Finds Us
By: Chloe Papadakis
From the fictional town of Cedar Valley, where characters from Quiet Echo continue to respond to real-world events.
When I read the news from Michigan this week—the shooting in a church where families had gathered to worship—I felt that familiar ache in my chest. The one that whispers: it could have been us. It could have been here, in our own small town, in the spaces where we think our children are safest.
Bishop Jeffrey Schaub, who leads a congregation of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Grand Blanc, stood before his people on Sunday, September 28, 2025, and spoke words that reached far beyond his meetinghouse. He said he was grateful for the way people were holding one another up, leaning on their faith in Jesus Christ, finding strength in a testimony that doesn’t falter even when the world does.
Those words traveled here, to my kitchen table in Cedar Valley, where my son’s half-finished homework sat beside a basket of unfolded laundry. And I thought: how do I explain to my children that tragedy finds us in places where joy and peace should be the only guests?
As a mother, my first instinct is to shield. To scoop them up, to promise, “You’re safe.” But children are sharp; they see the news, they hear the sirens, they notice the candles flickering at vigils. Safety feels less like a guarantee and more like a prayer whispered every night before bed.
What Bishop Schaub reminded me is that we are not asked to face heartbreak alone. Communities hold. Faith steadies. When life feels splintered, it is the quiet act of standing with each other—bringing casseroles, folding hands in prayer, listening without rushing to solve—that gives us the courage to go on.
I think about Cedar Valley, about how easily we let our differences turn us into strangers. And then I picture that Michigan congregation, holding tight in the darkest hours, remembering what matters most. It makes me wonder what would change here if we chose unity before argument, kindness before suspicion.
For my children, the lesson I want them to see is this: the world is not always safe, but love is always stronger. Evil can disrupt, but it cannot define us. And when tragedy does find us—as it will, in different forms—faith and family become the shelter we run to, not the walls we hide behind.
May we, like the people in that Michigan chapel, learn to stand together. May we hold to the hope that no bullet, no headline, no fear can outmatch the strength of a community bound by faith and compassion.
This editorial is part of the fictional Cedar Valley News series. While the people and town are fictional, the national events they reflect on are real.
It’s free, it’s fresh, and it’s waiting for you on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, and all major platforms starting October 6. We’re launching Quiet Echo—A Cedar Valley News Podcast! Every day, you’ll hear a short editorial straight from the fictional newsroom of the Cedar Valley News. Join us in Cedar Valley—you’ll feel right at home.