As we age, we often face the reality of loss—losing grandparents, childhood friends, and even those we forged connections with in college. Each death serves as a reminder of life’s fragility, briefly shaking us before we slip back into the comforting belief that tomorrow is promised. It’s easy to think we’ll have time to improve ourselves—to become better Christians, spouses, and parents.
However, that illusion was shattered for me on September 10 when Charlie Kirk was killed by leftist extremists.
Charlie Kirk demonstrated what it means to live and die as a Christian. His race has come to an end; now our own must begin.
While I never met Charlie personally, I worked as a publicist on his book, “Right Wing Revolution,” last summer. Our conversations never crossed paths, but his death hit me harder than any other loss I’ve faced.
In trying to comprehend why, I found the answer becoming the launch point for this book.
The day of Charlie’s assassination, I was picking up my daughter from kindergarten. The previous day, she repeatedly asked, “Is Daddy in the car? Is Daddy here?” This time, I wanted to be there for her.
As I parked, my phone lit up with the news: Charlie Kirk had been shot. My stomach dropped.
That sense of dread wasn’t unfamiliar. On July 13, 2024, I experienced something similar when an alert claimed President Trump had been shot. After a few anxious moments, relief washed over me—Trump had survived.
This time, though, relief didn’t come.
I found myself immobilized in the car as my wife walked into the school. Then I watched the video of the moment he was struck by the bullet.
Just one glimpse told me that survival was impossible.
Then, my daughter appeared.
Her face lit up with joy, a joy that Charlie’s daughter would never feel again.
My little girl dashed towards the car, shouting, “Dada!” Another child had lost their father, alongside his wife and son. They would never relive the beautiful moment unfolding right in front of me.
For my daughter, nothing had changed. For me, everything had.
That night, I lay on the floor beside my oldest daughter’s crib, unable to sleep as thoughts of Charlie and his family haunted me. How would Erica explain to their children that their father would never walk through that door again?
In the days that followed, I found myself crying more than I ever had. I’m not usually someone prone to tears, but with Charlie’s passing, something in me shifted.
I dove into Charlie’s words, not as mere content but as profound testimony. What I discovered transformed me. Charlie exhibited a maturity that surpassed many older than him. He understood his identity, his calling, and the sacrifices that came with it. He accepted the cost.
I saw in Charlie the person I aspired to be. Strong yet gentle. Brave but humble. He remained unshaken by animosity, fearing God more than man. This realization laid bare a troubling truth for me: while I shared many of his beliefs, I lacked his bravery.
I often only voiced my opinions when it felt safe. The pain of losing friends for voting Trump in 2020 still lingers, and the fear of further loss hasn’t faded.
Charlie spoke out without hesitation. He lived out Matthew 5 and Mark 8—not as literary references, but as essential directives. He faced the hostility of a debating crowd, fully aware of the risks.
When hatred culminated in a fatal shot, it ended his life, but not the mission he embodied.
His passing forced me to confront my own compromises—shining a light on the disparity between who I am and who God calls me to be. It became clear that I needed to embrace courage and live my truth now—a costly, and perhaps dangerous, truth; a biblical truth.
Charlie’s life and death transcended politics; they were deeply spiritual events.
He defended his family in obedience to God. He rejected identity politics, recognizing the inherent dignity of every individual. He stood firm for fatherhood, knowing that its absence could threaten our nation. He defended the dignity of Black Americans, viewing them as unique individuals rather than tools of political agendas. He confronted transgender ideologies, understanding that lies about creation inevitably distort truths about God.
Sadly, for these stands, he faced vilification, dehumanization, and ultimately, murder.
The ideology that took Charlie’s life didn’t materialize overnight; it festered in the quietude of those who feared the consequences of speaking out. When good people withdraw, evil flourishes—and too many of us have.
Charlie stood firm; now, none of us can afford to hesitate.
The person I was—cautious and hesitant—has passed with Charlie. In his place stands someone who realizes that truth comes with sacrifices, that silence equals surrender, and that only God’s approval truly matters.
My daughter deserves to grow up in a nation where political violence is rejected, where truth prevails even in perilous circumstances. A nation where courage isn’t limited to a brave few like Charlie Kirk, but shared by millions.
This is why I wrote “For Christ and Country: The Martyrdom of Charlie Kirk.” It’s not solely a remembrance of Charlie, but a call for action, spurred by his death—a summons for change in all of us.
Charlie Kirk showed us the essence of living and dying as Christians.
His race is over, and now it’s our turn to act.
We carry the torch for Christ, our nation, and for Charlie.
