Love, Loss, and Leaving A Legacy

The cycle between grief and healing is not a new one for me—and while I can't say I'm an expert at coping with loss, I can absolutely say that the power of legacy proves hope beyond death is possible. Still, I can't say that either, can I? Not without admitting that some days feel heavier than others. And not without admitting that this day is one of them.

It's been nearly two weeks since Charlie Kirk's assassination, and in many ways, his death has reignited a much-needed conversation about the weight of loss, how to balance faith in hard times, and how to find compassion across divides. We've argued as a society over the value of remembering those we've lost, especially when it means honoring a legacy that one person respects...and another does not.

Millions of people around the globe have mourned his death, and today nearly 80,000 of them filled the State Farm Stadium in Glendale, Arizona for his memorial. I watched from home, sometimes in agreement, sometimes not. Because grief is complicated. Like me. Like you. And yes, like Charlie. Either way, today is proof that whether you loved him, hated him, or barely knew his name until it popped up on your newsfeed, the impact of his absence is real.

For me, this has meant a lot of things. I grieve for the broken hearts of the family he left behind. My heart aches for the parents of his assassin, who have thus far done their best to face every parent's worst nightmare with grace. And my spirit is struggling constantly with the deep, almost desperate lamentation of so many of the people around me.

But I think what most people don't understand is that it's not all about Charlie Kirk. He may be the current catalyst, but as I watch friends and neighbors turn their backs on each other in a horrifying show of Two-Faced: True Colors, one thing becomes clear—perhaps the deepest scourge on today's society is that so many have lost the common sense of compassion in grief that unites us.

The funny thing about grief is that it doesn't ask permission. Regardless of beliefs, politics, differences, or personal history, it simply arrives. Sometimes in whispers. Sometimes in waves. Always with a reminder that life is fleeting.

My mother was deathly ill for most of my life, but she took 24 years to die. Every family crisis revolved around carefully considering the fragility of both her body and her mind, and every hospital stay came with undeniable awareness that each one might be the last. Around 2010, those stays began to include somber warnings that piled, one on top of the other, with decreasing hope:

• "Your bones are too fragile."
• "Your kidneys are shutting down again."
• "Your cardiac function is ninety-two percent...eighty-five percent...seventy-eight percent."
• "We need you to know that CPR is no longer a viable option. Your body can't withstand it anymore."

When it's personal, complicated grief is made more so by complicated life. My mother was deeply flawed, and by the time I turned twenty, there was a part of me that hated her. When she died in 2019, thirty-five-year-old me took the last remaining step toward love and forgiveness in grief. 

Grief isn't limited to home and personal connection, though—it finds us through TV, radio, and the scrolling headlines that so often make us pause in disbelief. It may be less personal but it's no less complicated. Still uncertain. Sometimes a rushing wind, other times a crushing weight.

I remember being stunned by the outpouring of grief when Princess Diana died in 1997. She was beautiful, famous, generally accepted as a kind woman of grace and generosity. My mom watched the funeral on TV, and while I understood the loss of life, I couldn't figure out why people would want to watch that. She was a stranger to so many. That same year brought the death of Mother Teresa, who spent her life laying hands on society's untouchables, and it seemed like the whole world cried.

When Michael Jackson died in 2009, the grief that settled in the pit of my stomach brought clarity—and painful confusion. I knew about his past, I pitied his childhood. And I loathed the accusations against him, not because they were voiced but because I couldn't stomach the horrible possibility that they were true. But I loved his music, his charisma, his glamour. And so, at the end of a life so filled with torment, I gave thanks for the end even as I grieved the loss of an icon. Michael Jackson taught me that celebrities are human too, that money really can't buy happiness, and that it's possible for both disgust and admiration to exist at the same time.

2003 brought the death of Fred Rogers, and I wept like a child. With the loss of his calm energy and quiet character, I understood. Because even though I never knew him, my heart felt as if a hole had been ripped in the fabric pocket of the world...and some valuable part of humanity's goodness had fallen out.

As the news broke of Robin Williams's death in 2014, I wept for the absence of his voice, the end of his laughter, and the inescapable realization that the playfulness of Aladdin's Genie would never feel the same. I still didn't like his stand-up comedy—but his off-screen struggles and his almost universal reputation for kindness taught me that legacy isn’t about headlines or soundbites. It’s about the hearts we touch.

So it seems, whether we loved them or not, whether they changed the world's stage or only changed our hearts, the public figures who shaped our lives leave imprints on all of us. And the grief that touches us when they're gone doesn't need perfection in order to honor impact and presence. Perhaps what's best is that we who remain use the echoes of those gone before us to foster a more peaceful world for those still to come.

Tonight I will pray over the world, just like always. I will pray over my country and my state and my city, like always. I'll pray over my neighborhood and the complicated people who live in it. Like always.

But maybe this time I'll hold a moment of silence, too—not just for one life, but for all the lives that shaped mine, with echoes left like breadcrumbs to truth in my heart. And I'll give thanks for every smile, every act of courage, and every gift of compassion that reverberates long after the gift-giver is gone.

*****

Unfortunately, grief and compassion are rarely easy to balance. Grief doesn’t follow a schedule, check our politics, or examine our faith. And while it's okay to grieve even the complicated losses, it's just as okay if some losses don't sting for you in the same way they do for others. The thing to remember is that we're all human enough to understand pain, and compassion for one person's pain should never be measured against another person's perception of worth.

Because the truth is, perfection is an impossible standard for anyone. For Charlie Kirk, for JFK, for Walt Disney. For you, and for me. But legacy is rarely about perfection. Instead, it's about the moments that shape our hearts. The musicians, the actors, the leaders, the neighbors, the saints—and yes, even the strangers—who leave pieces of themselves behind in all of us.

Today, I hope you'll make space for those who grieve what's lost. I hope you'll find gratitude in the common ground we share. And above all, I hope you'll muster the courage to reach peacefully for people you don't always agree with, because even when you can't change or control what someone else thinks, does, says, or feels, you can control how you react, how you behave, and whether or not you practice whatever you're preaching.

Sometimes that's what it takes—to make the difference, to bridge the gap, and to help the world around you...

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