I didn’t follow Charlie Kirk closely. I wasn’t one of his 9 million subscribers. But when the news broke of his death, my reaction was visceral—a whole-body ache. My stomach turned. My mind felt foggy. My shoulders tightened under the reminder that this world is not safe.

As I dropped my kids off at school this morning, I felt the “what ifs” swirl in my head. What if it had been my husband? What if my kids grow up in a world where violence and hatred only escalate? My eyes burned hot with anger thinking of Charlie’s children growing up without their dad.

Maybe you’ve felt that too—the heavy, helpless ache when tragedy hits. Even if we didn’t know him personally, moments like this rip open our fears about the safety of our families, the future of our country, and the brokenness of our world.

In the past 24 hours, plenty has already been said about Charlie’s legacy, about politics, about the state of our society. But I’m not there yet. I’m still processing. And one of the ways I do that is by writing—laying my thoughts before God. This morning, He met me in that space with a framework that helped me process: heart, eyes, mouth, hands, feet.

I’d love to share it with you in case you’re also feeling rattled and weary today.

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Heart

I’m going back again to the practice of lament. Bringing God my broken heart, raw and broken. I’m asking him to remind me who He is in light of this darkness.

Here’s the lament I wrote this morning:

“God, I bring You my tattered, broken heart. You are not surprised by the brokenness of this world, but I confess I am. I’m rattled by the death of Charlie Kirk. I’m wrecked for this family. I’m afraid and anxious. I’m in disbelief that “assassination” is a concept I might need to explain to my daughters this week—not because it’s in their history books, but because it’s on TikTok.

This feels like too much. Like a weight pressing on my chest, so heavy I can’t catch a deep breath.

You never promised that following You would be safe, but martyrdom has always felt like a far-away reality. For years I’ve opened Bible studies by praying, “Thank you, Lord, that we live in a free country, where we can worship You without fear.” Today, I’m afraid. (And, at the same time, I’m embarrassed by my fear.) Forgive me if I’ve clung to the good news of “freedom of speech and religion” more than I have been rooted in the Gospel.

I’m tempted to fast-forward to a future void of Your intervention. I fear the acceleration of gun violence, I hate the divisions in our country, I worry about the America my kids will grow up in. And that makes me furious. Indignant. It shouldn’t be this way. And yet, here I am—still choosing to bring it to You. Because where else can I go?

Remind me, Lord, of Your sovereignty. Your indignation over evil. Your steadfast love for us. You are a Good Shepherd providing for Erika Kirk, comforting her babies, and welcoming Charlie home. You are holding my tender heart, too.

In John 16 You warned Your disciples that persecution and trouble were coming. Then You told them, “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)

I need Your peace today, Jesus. Not the docile, kumbaya, pretend-it’s-all-ok kind of peace. But the kind of resolute security that comes from being rooted in Your steadfast love and made bolder and more Christ-like because of it.

The kind of peace Charlie has today. The kind I long for in the middle of this broken world.”

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Eyes

I’m choosing to be careful about where I look. There are graphic images circulating, and I’m praying God would protect my eyes and my kids’ eyes. Not because I want to pretend evil doesn’t exist, but because I believe one of the enemy’s greatest schemes is distraction.

This isn’t “content.” It’s the murder of an image-bearer. And staring at horror doesn’t grow my faith; it erodes it.

Instead, I’m fixing my eyes on Christ. Remember Peter walking on the water in Matthew 14? He was doing just fine until he shifted his gaze to the wind and waves. That’s when fear took over.

The storm is loud right now. But I want my eyes locked on Jesus, the only One who can steady my steps. For me, that looks like limiting my time on social media this week.

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Mouth

Words matter, especially in moments of grief and anger. I want my words to honor Charlie’s legacy, not spiral into gossip or outrage.

When this comes up in conversation, I’m asking God to help me speak life—words of truth, courage, and hope. Instead of, “Did you hear what happened?” I want to say something like, “This is heartbreaking. Let’s pray for his family. Let’s be bold in our faith like he was.”

Our kids are listening. Our friends are listening. May our mouths reflect the hope of Christ even as we grieve.

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Hands

Grief can paralyze us, but the best way I know to fight back is to keep my hands open to serve. To keep showing up for my family, folding the laundry, packing the lunches, wiping the tears. To keep showing up for my community with compassion and courage.

Yes, I’ll cry and lament. But then I’ll dust myself off and keep seeking the wellfare of the place where God has planted me (Jeremiah 29:7). That’s one way we can all honor Charlie’s legacy—by being faithful on our own corners of the world.

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Feet

Maybe the most radical thing we can do in response to tragedy is to keep walking faithfully in the ordinary.

We can’t fix the whole world with one grand gesture. But we can wake up tomorrow, lace up our shoes, and walk in step with the Spirit. We can walk our kids to school and pray over them. We can walk into our workplaces and serve with integrity. We can walk into our neighborhoods and bring meals, conversations, and compassion.

Quiet, consistent faithfulness is its own form of holy resistance.

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Whole Self

As I think about Charlie’s passing, I feel the weight of Jesus’ words in John 16: “In this world you will have trouble.” He wasn’t exaggerating. We’re living it. But He didn’t stop there. He promised: “Take heart! I have overcome the world.”

That’s my anchor today. The waves are high, the news is dark, but Christ has already overcome. His resurrection isn’t just a future hope; it’s a present reality that steadies us in chaos and calls us to keep walking with courage.

So if your heart is heavy like mine, let’s grieve honestly. Let’s pray fervently. But let’s also refuse to let fear and despair dictate our next steps.

May our hearts stay soft, our eyes fixed, our mouths truthful, our hands open, and our feet faithful—until the day He returns and makes all things new.