Honoring Seven Lives

Vera Johnson
Sep 23
3 min read

This is hard to share, but it needs to be said.

I personally know seven people who have been murdered. In cold blood. Premeditated. Six lives I knew.

💔One was a man.

A kind, devoted father. A man who loved his community. He was the deputy sheriff in my hometown—an upstanding leader who cared about people and wanted real change.

When I had community concerns, I could call or text him, and he would show up. He came to my kitchen table more than once—listening, offering support, helping find solutions.

That man was murdered in the line of duty—shot by a known gang member who had already taken another life that night, before turning the gun on himself. His death left a hole that will never fully heal. Our community was shaken to its core, and I still feel the weight of his absence.

Thousands turned out to honor him. Fire trucks raised their ladders, police and first responders came from across the West Coast and mountain region. They played his favorite song—“Waiting for the World to Change.”

💔Six were women.

Six women I knew personally—women I’d shared tea, stories, experiences, and dreams with.

Their lives were valuable. Each had overcome hardships of her own. Each had so much to look forward to.

💔One was a 24-year-old I’d known since she was 4. Her boyfriend overdosed her because she wanted to leave him.

💔One was a mother who wrote for our local paper. She cared deeply about her community. She had just released her memoir—one I’d read, and it was hard, all too familiar. Her son, high on street drugs, axed her door down. She had a restraining order against him. He killed her.

💔One was a single mom, a local small business owner. She gave her community a place for AA and NA meetings in her coffee shop after hours. Passionate, hopeful, supportive. She went on a first date, never came home to her son with disabilities. He became the next target, but somehow escaped and reported the attack. Her body was later recovered. She thought she’d met a nice guy.

💔One was a young Native American woman. Her life was senselessly cut short by rage and violence. I honor her in spirit. And the loss felt by everyone who knew her.

💔💔And two were women I’d known for many years. Local friends. Kind, loving, supportive. Both lives ended senselessly, far too soon. Dreams left unrealized.

And yet, the circumstances were different for each of them. Rage, jealousy, and uncontrolled anger all played a part in taking their lives—senseless acts leaving holes no one can fill. I am still deeply saddened by their loss, and I carry their memory with me every day.

Why am I sharing this, you might wonder?

Not for sympathy.

Not for controversy.

Not for politics, blame, or trite solutions.

I’m sharing because:

1. I was almost a statistic myself. I had to flee the threat of death by someone filled with rage. Some cannot escape. I feel blessed.

2. It’s not always obvious there’s imminent danger.

3. There’s often no way to predict who will take it that far.

💔💔💔💔💔💔

Seven lives. Seven people I knew. Gone too soon, but never forgotten.

Only one was taken by a gun; the others, by different acts of violence.

I’m looking for change.