I don’t know why I didn’t cry, but I didn’t.
Maybe an hour before he was shot, I’d decided to wear a shirt from Turning Point’s first ever Student Action Summit in 2015 to the gym and I remember thinking about all that had happened in the last decade.
I thought about how even then, before Turning Point was really Turning Point, and the conferences were at a dinky Hyatt by the airport instead of sprawling convention centers, booking out multiple hotels for every event they hosted, there was something about him that seemed unstoppable.
I remember when there were no special effects, no VIP tickets, and the stage was 3 steps up to a podium instead of a runway. When they had a modest office in Chicago instead of a stately headquarters in Phoenix. When Charlie Kirk was fighting tooth and nail for a seat at the table, and at war with older, more established organizations that insisted he was doing things the wrong way.
His conservatism wasn’t polite, polished or asking for permission. It was confrontational, courageous and creative. While other college clubs for America-loving activists were so often confined to a meeting room, Turning Point took campuses by storm, making their presence known, showing once-voiceless students that they didn’t have to hide their convictions and challenging the Marxist indoctrination masquerading as education, not in theory but on the ground, in action – where he could (and did) change hearts and minds.
On its surface, Turning Point was far from the first club of its kind. There were other groups that had almost identical values, but what set it apart was his vision and audacity when so many others treated our beliefs like a hushed confession to be made behind closed doors as opposed to roared in the arena without flinching.
When I think about the early years and the conflict that characterized them, I can’t help but notice the parallels between him and Trump.
They were both outsiders thrust into civic spotlight in 2015 after years of groundwork, criticized for their style, and dismissed and rejected by the Party’s kingpins. And they both had incredible, borderline mythic victories resulting in their indisputable domination of Washington and the world.
And with Trump’s natural charisma and unapologetic personality, Kirk’s unwavering commitment to defying the status quo, and the high energy and originality they both embodied, it seemed like they were a match literally made in heaven, each stepping into their calling at exactly the right time, and empowering one another to complete the work that only they could.
While others asked, “how do we get Democrats to like us?” or “how can we win a few more seats next year?” Charlie seemed to be asking “how do we change the culture?” and Trump had the once-in-a-generation wit, grit and flair that upended decades of precedent, invigorated younger generations, and gave Kirk the opportunity to build what no one thought was possible.
At just 31 years old, he achieved what most people won’t at 90.
Not a single year was squandered.
It was like God knew how it all would end, and decided to pack his time on earth with so much intention and purpose that every moment counted, so there was no question he’d accomplish what he was put here to do.
He didn’t just succeed professionally, he succeeded where it mattered. It was hard to look at videos of him and his wife and not believe in love that was grounded and godly but still gushed. His kids seemed to adore him. And if there was ever a question about how he treated people, it was answered forcefully in how everyone that knew him responded to his death.
Logically, I knew he was famous, and well connected, and that he had touched many thousands of lives if not millions. But watching the posts pour in, I understood the sheer magnitude of his influence in a way I never had. He wasn’t just someone that knew a lot of people and had a lot of followers. He was a vital organ to this movement, and changed the trajectory of so many people’s lives with job offers, leaps of faith, and quiet acts of kindness, expecting nothing in return.
Like most people, I couldn’t stop thinking about his family. And it struck me just how much the loved ones of remarkable men often suffer. I thought about the kind of selfless, sacrificial love required of Erika and her children while he was alive, and how they’re probably breaking under the weight of it as I write this.
Their lives were changed forever in an instant that was captured on camera, plastered across the Internet and was seared into the public consciousness. They’ll be forced to relive it again, and again and again. Even if they’d like to forget how brutally and suddenly he was taken from them, they’ll never be able to.
All I can say is that God restores, and my prayers are with them.
I didn’t cry, and I still haven’t. I’m not sure why. I am a crier – especially when things feel existential.
It reminded me of when my great grandmother died when I was in grade school, and I had no reaction because even though I knew we were there for a funeral, I still expected her condition to change. I was convinced that any minute she’d spring back to life and we’d breathe a sigh of relief.
And it reminded me of the Trump assassination attempt in Butler in a different way. I didn’t cry then either. I never felt real worry. There was no part of me that thought Trump’s life could be cut short. I knew it would help him in the election but outside of that, I knew viscerally, instinctively and inexplicably that it had to happen. And I feel that again now.
For what, I don’t know.
But I know that God didn’t and wouldn’t waste his life, or the profound heartbreak of his loved ones.
I know that nothing happens without God’s permission, and that what God allows is difficult to make sense of.
But even in our confusion, even in our pain, and even in our anger, God is working, God is sovereign and tragedies – both personal and political – seem to be His chosen tools to lay the foundation for triumph.
Already I’m seeing Christians that entirely avoided ideological discussions break their silence. I’m seeing it in random acquaintances – and I’m seeing it in people with massive followings and a lot to lose, fully aware of what it might cost them, and still deciding to take the risk.
In a deep blue city, knowing just how poorly it could be received, one of the most iconic sports franchises in the country chose to honor him.
For decades, well-meaning people bit their tongues, surrendered to insanity and lived in fear. And through this devastating loss, Kirk may have finally fulfilled what he set out to do, emboldening them to proclaim the good, beautiful and true.
Something is already in motion – and if it’s God’s will, I hope it leaves behind an America where his children will flourish, his legacy will endure, and that he would have been proud to die for.
what do you think?