A Media Memoir of Faith, Fracture, and the Fight for Truth
Chapter 5 – The Loss
The last time I saw my mother in person was in the summer of 2020. We talked about her retirement approaching in three years. We discussed her relationships with her parents. We reflected on my father and the stepfathers that had affected our journeys. We cried when we laughed. We cried when we grieved for each other. Her wrinkles showed a life lived with love. She passed away in late October. I didn’t know it then, but that summer conversation would become one of the most important memories of my life — a final moment of clarity before the world grew even more chaotic.
Little did I know I would soon work with the band Blue October at the Studios at Fischer, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Touring musicians couldn’t tour. Venues closed. The entertainment industry froze. But artists needed to perform and audiences needed connection. In August 2020 I was contracted to help live stream and record bands with Studios at Fischer. Van Wilks Band, The Tiarras, and Black Fret artists — Black Satellite, Sir Woman, The Belle Sounds, Altamesa, Dr. JOE, Cilantro Boombox, Dossey — filled the second half of the year. The studio became a refuge — a place where creativity didn’t have to shut down just because the world did.
The masking still seemed ridiculous, but it didn’t matter. I was in the industry I was supposed to be in for this season in my life. What started as a workaround became a lifeline — for artists, for fans, for the studio, and for me. The energy of those sessions, the camaraderie, the sense of purpose in keeping music alive — it reminded me that God doesn’t waste seasons. Even the strangest ones.
The elections were right around the corner. Donald Trump versus Joe Biden. The fog left by a summer of destruction hung over everything. Pandemic narratives forced people to take sides, sometimes against their neighbors. FOX had seemingly turned on Trump, as evidenced by Chris Wallace’s two‑on‑one presidential debate in September. The tone had shifted. The trust had shifted. The country had shifted.
The establishment narratives had broken, and independent creators weren’t playing along. They covered stories the mainstream ignored or dismissed. The suppression of the Hunter Biden laptop story. The limited public appearances by Joe Biden. The contrast with Trump’s rallies. The sense that the gatekeepers were tightening their grip while independent voices were widening the lens.
Despite this, Trump still seemed to be a shoo‑in for reelection, but lockdowns provided cover for mass mail-in voting ballots in states that could not provide verifiable chain of custody. The sheer numbers leading to Biden’s win seemed impossible. The country felt like it was watching two different elections at the same time — two movies on one screen, as Scott Adams said.
I sensed the loss was God‑speed — sudden, purposeful, and part of a larger plan. I didn’t care for Trump’s last year in office, but I voted for his reelection anyway. The bottleneck of donors and political parties leaves voters with two to choose from every four years. The first three years under Trump weren’t so bad. Biden would be worse as we would soon discover. A comeback attempt in 2024 seemed inevitable.
And beneath all of it — the livestreams, the election fog, the media fractures, the cultural exhaustion — I felt the quiet pull of something larger unfolding. The sense that the country was heading toward a moment of reckoning. A moment that would arrive sooner than any of us expected.
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