I grew up with Charlie Kirk. No, I don’t mean that we went to school together or lived on the same street as kids.
Charlie grew up in the suburbs outside Chicago, while I spent much of my life in Carroll County, roughly 20 miles west of Baltimore. Charlie was only a year my senior. He and I grew up in the same America. We were close to the same age when the cataclysmic September 11 attacks took place. We were around the same age when Barack Obama rose to sudden prominence and popularity and took the White House. We both watched the same conservative pundits, and both became involved with grassroots campaigns. We were both raised Christian, but did not really invest in our faith until early adulthood. We are both husbands and both fathers.
In some ways, I could have been Charlie, and Charlie could have been me.
I imagine that a lot of young men feel much the same way. In fact, I know that a lot of young men feel much the same way. Charlie was all of us, but he was also the best of us. Where the rest of us were prone to in-fighting and bickering, obsessed over our “original” ideas and fought to make sure that we got credit for them, lost our tempers easily and dismissed opposing viewpoints with a derisive wave of the hand, Charlie built coalitions and friendships, gladly gave credit to the great thinkers who shaped his worldview, and always invited others to sit down and talk, to have a conversation. He was all of us in the sense that each of us could see something of ourselves in him, but he was the best of us in that he could always inspire the rest of us, despite minute political disagreements, to want to be better men.
And now Charlie’s gone. There is one similarity, one common factor Charlie and I share, which has weighed heavily upon me these past few days, ever since first seeing that video of the 31-year-old sitting under his tent and smiling and chatting before grasping at his neck and collapsing.
Charlie and I are both fathers.
Like Charlie, I have a daughter – a beautiful little girl. When she smiles, my troubles disappear. When she laughs, my heart dances. When she rests her head on me, I feel as though I’ve been given a foretaste of Heaven, even if only for a few moments. When she cries, my heart breaks. When she is hurt, I would do anything to take her pain upon myself as my own.
I know Charlie felt the same way about his little girl. You can see it in photos and videos. There’s a video from behind the scenes after a Fox News interview: Charlie is sitting on the couch with the Fox hosts when his daughter steps into the frame. She runs across the stage to her daddy, who immediately breaks out into a grin, scoops up his little girl, and cradles her in his arms. Charlie’s social media accounts were always filled with pictures of his family, posts about his family. The three most important things in Charlie’s life were his faith, his family, and his country.
How devastating, then, to reflect that this beautiful little girl will never again run into her daddy’s arms. She will never again be lifted high and stare down into the strong, smiling face holding her so firmly, so safely. She will never hear her father’s voice again, whispering goodnight or telling her he loves her or marveling over how beautiful his little girl is. When she gets scared in the night and calls out for daddy, no daddy will come. When she gets a good grade or scores a goal in her sport of choice, she will have no daddy to smile and tell her how proud he is. When she grows older, she will not have a father to walk her down the aisle or dance with her at her wedding. When she has children of her own, she will not get to see the look on her father’s face when she shares the joyous news. No, she was robbed of that future, she was robbed of her birthright, she was robbed of the life her father so lovingly prepared for her.
There will, of course, be many stories of what he did, what he achieved, what he accomplished. There will be stories of his humor, his kindness, and his courage. But there will also be stories of what he never was, what he could have been, what potential was snuffed out. No child should have to listen to those sad, speculative stories.
The only memory this precious little girl may have of her father just might be his death. She and her mother, Erika, were there when Charlie died, according to accounts from witnesses and reports from social media. When the gunshot rang out, this little girl was scared. But her daddy wasn’t there this time. And he would never be there again.
In the days before this little girl’s father was ripped away from her forever, social media was flooded with pictures and video footage of the murder of another girl, Iryna Zarutska. Although not as graphic as the footage of Charlie’s death, the videos of Iryna’s death are just as haunting. In one particular image, the skinny little 23-year-old is staring up at her killer, her face a mass of confusion and hurt, dominated and overwhelmed by sheer terror. I’m sure that girl, too, would have wanted to run to her daddy’s arms, to seek safety there. But she will never see her father again, and her last moments on this earth were spent terrified and alone.
It’s been a tough week for fathers, especially the fathers of little girls. Every good father, no doubt, saw his own little girl in those images of Iryna. And every good father, no doubt, saw himself in those images of Charlie. The world is a dangerous place, full of cruelty and horror, and it just became a little more dangerous, a little crueler, and a little more horrific.
Fathers have a unique and irreplaceable role in this world. We are the first, last, and strongest bulwark against the cruelty and horror that threatens to engulf us. It is the responsibility of fathers to raise good sons, to raise boys to be men, men of virtue, men of honor, men of strength. It is the responsibility of fathers to protect daughters, to keep these girls safe in body, mind, and soul.
It’s been a tough week for fathers, and there is, certainly, much to fear. But even beyond the fear, the events of the last week should serve as a grim inspiration for fathers to be the best men that they can be, to raise their sons and daughters well, and to protect their family. The world is a dangerous place, full of cruelty and horror, but the quiet strength and devotion of fathers will, with time and endurance, make the world a less dangerous and less cruel place and may be enough to banish at least some of the horrors.
Perhaps the children who call out for daddy to come get rid of the monsters under the bed see a greater truth than they know.
Originally published at The Washington Stand.
