"Where were you when Charlie died?" Like the JFK assassination, this brutal murder will not be forgotten, not for many years to come.

You just felt it yesterday. Something happened that pierced America's soul — deeply. The non-stop media coverage across the dial (and the political spectrum) all afternoon and into the night. One analyst after the next choking back tears. The beautiful, heartfelt notes of sympathy from his political rivals. The announcement of his passing delivered to a shocked nation by the President of the United States himself, who then ordered all flags lowered to half staff.

The optics said it all. A beautiful sunny day in Utah. There were thousands of college students, but they were not marching, not protesting, not hurling insults and rocks at the police. These students were smiling and laughing and cheering as they played catch, throwing baseball caps to the very young man on the stage who laughed and smiled, and cheered in return. Sweet innocence. And then the gunshot, the pandemonium, and for the millions who went to social media, the grotesque videos showing the bullet pierce Charlie's throat. Throughout the day, his detractors followed the coverage on television or on their phones and fell into unanticipated silence. His supporters wept. Millions on both sides of the divide prayed. 

What made Charlie Kirk such a force of nature? You've read or heard the touching analyses, so I won't be redundant. I, too, spoke at his Turning Points events, and I, too, was a guest on his podcasts. But I also have personal memories. I can't remember when we first met, but I do remember the two private conversations I had with two top supporters of the MRC, one who took me aside at a reception, and the other who called me, to urge me to take this unknown man under my wings (as if he needed it!) because they'd met him and knew he would someday be a leader of the movement. Charlie was in high school.

Charlie was a speaker on an MRC cruise in the Mediterranean and everyone there had a chance to interact with him. But years before, this time on a little fishing boat off the coast of Alaska, Charlie Hurt, Charlie Kirk, and I spent several hours alone. I had looked forward to this. Hurt, I knew well and admired watching him on Fox or reading his columns (he's the best in the business), and he's a friend. What I really wanted was to get inside the head of the younger Charlie, deep inside, to see what was there. I never had the chance. We spent the entire time with Charlie inside my head as he peppered me with one question after the next. What was the country like with Ronald Reagan as president? What did the movement that put him there look like? How did it evolve? What was my role? What was it like being Buckley's nephew? What of my father? Why did I found the Media Research Center? On and on they came. Charlie wanted to learn, and learn some more, and this was his opportunity. This told me all I needed to know about this remarkable young man. Or so I thought.

I ran into Charlie at an uber-private reception the night of President Trump's inauguration. Charlie sought me out.  There was urgency in his voice. "Your son is on that list? He's coming home?" Yes, I told him happily. My son was one of the J6ers who had spent seven months in prison for breaking a window and had been publicly pardoned that day. Charlie pressed on. "What time?" It seemed an odd question, and when I told him it was unclear, he wouldn't accept it. "It must be by 10:30! The president wants him out by 10:30!" And then he added, "If he isn't, find me and I'll call the White House!" He may even have said he'd call the president. And then he repeated that message passionately. It was so simple. This was my son, and for that reason, he wanted him home.

The Lord now has his son home. Let us take comfort in that.

Godspeed, Charlie.