On September 10th, Charlie Kirk was shot and killed—not only for standing for what he believed to be true, but because he was effective at it. He had a way of stirring people to think differently, challenging them to question the world around them, and encouraging them to stand firm in their convictions. For that, he will always be remembered.
I’ll be honest: I didn’t agree with everything Charlie said. But this post isn’t about agreement, debate, or politics. It’s about grief.
Grief is a strange thing. Many of us are walking through it right now, mourning a man we never personally knew. For some, it’s not about who he was but about what he represented. He embodied the courage to speak openly in a time where doing so comes with heavy risks. He was unafraid to use his voice publicly—and that cost him his life.
When I first heard the news, I didn’t cry. My heart went numb. It felt surreal, like I couldn’t fully grasp the weight of what had happened or what it meant about the world we live in today. But grief doesn’t follow rules or timelines. It sneaks up on us, sometimes when we least expect it.
For me, the breaking point came days later, on Saturday, September 13. I finally crumbled into tears—not only for Charlie, but for his wife and children, who are now left with a hole in their lives they never asked for. That’s the part that really gets to me: the ripple effect of violence. One man’s death is never just one man’s death. Families, friends, communities—people who loved and depended on him—are all forever changed.
And what unsettles me most is not just the act of violence itself, but the reason behind it. Charlie was killed for speaking. For sharing his perspective. For daring to have an opinion. For using his voice. That should shake us all.
If words can cost someone their life, what does that say about the state of our world?
We should never accept this as normal.
We are human beings, capable of love, compassion, empathy, and kindness. Yet, time and again, we choose the opposite. We choose hate instead of understanding. We choose to silence instead of listen. We choose violence instead of peace. But the truth is, we don’t have to.
Every single day, each of us is making choices. They might not be as extreme as life and death, but they matter. Choices about how we treat the people around us. Choices about how we react when someone disagrees with us. Choices about whether we build others up or tear them down. Choices about whether we’ll be the ones who bring more light into the world—or more darkness.
Charlie’s death is a sobering reminder of just how fragile life really is. It reminds us that our voices matter, that what we say carries weight, and that our time here is far shorter than we like to admit. We don’t know what tomorrow holds—but we do know we have today. And in that today, we have a responsibility.
To choose kindness over cruelty.
To choose listening over shouting.
To choose courage over fear.
To choose love over hate.
If your heart feels heavy right now, please hear this: grief is not weakness. It is not something to rush or suppress. Grief is proof that you care. It’s evidence of love. To grieve is to show that something mattered, that someone’s life had meaning.
So let the tears come. But don’t let them stop there. Let them move you. Let them remind you to live differently, to speak boldly but kindly, to carry yourself with compassion and strength in a world that desperately needs it.
Because at the end of the day, our voices are powerful. And the way we choose to use them might be the most important decision we ever make.
Lord, reflect Your light in the midst of darkness. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
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