Police in Houston, Texas have identified the shooter who opened fire at Joel Osteen’s Lakewood Church on Sunday as Genesse Ivonne Moreno, an immigrant from El Salvador with a lengthy criminaI history.
She previously used the name Jeffrey Escalante Moreno, prompting some reports that she identified as a transgender individuaI. Law enforcement officials did not refer to her as such during a press conference on Monday, however.
Two people were hit by the gunman — a 57-year-old man and a seven-year-old boy who accompanied the shooter — after she opened fire just after 2 p.m. on Sunday. Off-duty police officers who were present at the scene engaged the shooter and returned fire.
She was ultimately pronounced de ad at the scene.
The child — who has been identified as Moreno’s son — is not expected to survive, though he remains in criticaI condition at an area hospital, a Montgomery County District Attorney’s Office spokesperson told the Houston Chronicle.
According to investigators, Hassig arrived at the church accompanied by the child just before Spanish mass was set to begin. She was dressed in a bIack trench coat and was armed with a semiautomatic rifIe, which she pointed at officers before she was shot and kiIIed.
Christopher Hassig, commander of Houston Police Department Homicide Division, identified Moreno as female during the press conference and confirmed that she has a history of using both male and female aliases.
She utilized both male and femaIe names, but through all of our investigation through this point, talking with individuaIs, interview, documents, Houston Police Department reports, she has been identified this entire time as female. She, her, he said.
The Taste of Love: A Father’s Tribute
The kitchen, once a haven of warmth and laughter, now echoed with the clatter of pots and pans. John, a man more accustomed to spreadsheets than soufflés, stood amidst the chaos, his brow furrowed in concentration. Pancake batter, a lumpy, greenish-grey concoction, clung stubbornly to the sides of the bowl. His wife, Sarah, would have laughed, her eyes twinkling.
He missed her laughter. He missed her easy grace in the kitchen, the way she hummed along to the radio while whipping up culinary magic. He missed the way she’d kiss his cheek and say, “Don’t worry, darling, I’ve got this.” Now, he was adrift in a sea of burnt toast and forgotten recipes, his kitchen a battlefield rather than a haven.
His daughter, Lily, a bright-eyed girl of eight, watched him with a mixture of amusement and concern. “Dad,” she’d say, her voice gentle, “It’s okay if it’s not perfect.” But her words, meant to comfort, only served to deepen his sense of inadequacy. He longed to recreate the magic of Sarah’s cooking, to fill the void left by her absence with the comforting aroma of home-cooked meals.
One morning, determined to surprise Lily, John decided to try his hand at heart-shaped pancakes. He watched countless online tutorials, meticulously measuring ingredients, and even invested in a heart-shaped pan. The batter, this time, was a pale golden color, smooth and even. He poured it carefully into the pan, his heart pounding with a mixture of hope and trepidation.
Lily, ever the curious observer, watched him with wide eyes. “What are you making, Daddy?” she asked, her voice filled with excitement.
“Something special,” he replied, his voice a little hoarse.
As the pancakes cooked, a wave of memories washed over him. He remembered Sarah’s laughter, her playful banter with Lily, the warmth that radiated from their kitchen. He remembered the way Lily would eagerly devour Sarah’s pancakes, her face smeared with syrup.
Finally, he flipped the pancakes, his breath catching in his throat. They were golden brown and perfectly heart-shaped. He carefully transferred them to plates, adding a generous dollop of butter and a drizzle of maple syrup.
Lily’s eyes widened as she saw the pancakes. “Wow, Daddy!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with awe. “They look just like Mommy used to make!”
John’s heart swelled. He watched as Lily took a bite, her eyes closing in delight. “It tastes like the ones Mom made!” she declared, her voice filled with happiness.
Tears welled up in John’s eyes. He knew it wasn’t perfect, that the edges were a little burnt and the syrup a bit messy. But in that moment, it didn’t matter. He had made Lily smile. He had brought a little bit of Sarah back into their lives, one delicious pancake at a time.
From that day on, John continued to cook, his kitchen slowly transforming from a battlefield into a sanctuary. He learned new recipes, experimented with flavors, and even found himself enjoying the process. He knew he would never fully replace Sarah, but he could learn to cook with love, with memory, and with the hope of creating new memories with his daughter. And that, he realized, was a gift in itself.
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