💔 Here Am I: A Reflection on Tragedy, Faith, and the Courage to Love
In the days since Charlie Kirk’s murder, something has shifted inside me. Not just grief—but a soul-level ache. It feels as though we’ve lost something sacred in this country. A reverence for truth. A shared moral compass. A willingness to lift our spirits toward something more enlightened, more loving.
Instead, we’ve degraded into our worst selves. We’ve traded grace for grievance. And I find myself asking: How did we get here?
Is it the erosion of family structure? The rise of ideologies that teach our youth to justify violence over disagreement? Or have we simply tried to replace God with ourselves—believing we know better than He?
I’ve felt embarrassed by my own silence. My own reticence to speak truth in love. I’ve tiptoed around my conservative values, afraid to offend, afraid to stand. But this tragedy has awakened something new in me—a courage to profess my faith in Christ. To testify of His example. To follow Him, if ever there was One worth following.
🔥 A Nation in Mourning, A Soul in Revival
Across the country, I’ve seen people moved by something unseen. Drawn to church pews. Opening dusty Bibles. Whispering prayers they hadn’t spoken in years. It’s as if Charlie’s death cracked something open—not just politically, but spiritually.
Isaiah 6:8 has echoed in my heart: “Here am I; send me.”
It’s no longer about asking what God can do for me. It’s about asking what I can do for Him. That seemed to be a posture Charlie embraced. And now, I wonder how I can do the same.
🌿 Gibran’s Wisdom in the Wake of Violence
Kahlil Gibran once wrote:
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
This moment is a scar. But it can also be a seed. Gibran’s poetry reminds me that love is the only answer. The only universal truth that transcends ideology, race, and creed.
“You can do no wrong by me.” What if we saw our enemies through that lens?
🌍 Remembering My Roots, Reclaiming My Voice
I grew up as a minority in foreign lands. My parents taught me that we were always guests. They could always see the best in everyone first. I felt so blessed to have so many friends from all walks of life. Thank goodness we weren't the same. Diversity wasn’t a slogan—it was my reality. I learned to welcome different thoughts, to wrestle with hard questions about my faith. And in that struggle, I found strength—not because I had all the answers, but because I knew what I believed. And I knew that He knew. That was enough.
Today, I’m reminded that love is not passive. It’s inconvenient. It demands service, humility, and consistency. If I can reflect the Savior in my countenance, then it will never be about me. It will always be about Him. And maybe—just maybe—others will see Him too.
🕊️ The Altar of Forgiveness
Perhaps Charlie’s legacy will be measured not in political impact, but in our willingness to lay down hate. To purge our hearts of contention. To forgive ourselves first. To make space for the redemptive power of the Atonement to burn us anew.
But what will we do with that empty space? How do we keep it from filling with resentment again?
We must choose love. We must see through the lens of charity. We must ask God, trembling but willing:
So, I ask you—what burden are you still carrying that love could lift? And what would change in your life if you simply said, “Here am I; send me”? Maybe for you it isn't my God, but whoever you believe in. Does the question still haunt you sufficiently like it does me? If so, then I am glad.....for the both of us.
Let's speak again in one year and take stock of our collective response.
