Charlie Kirk would have been right there with us

Charlie Kirk was assassinated on a Wednesday. I was getting ready to leave for the sidewalk to pray for the abortion-vulnerable that day when I saw my husband’s text: “Charlie’s been shot!” 

Suddenly, I felt the urge to stay home. Having been assaulted before while carrying out this ministry—a quick punch in the jaw that resulted in a minor concussion—I’m well aware that sidewalk advocacy carries some risks. The usual heaviness of abortion day just doubled. 

These moments should not surprise us. Abortion is a violent act, and by its nature, it begets other violent acts. But while cautious and mindful of these risks, I also hear God’s firm and encouraging voice: “Do not be afraid.” 

Still, I approached the sidewalk with worry, wondering if Charlie would make it, and if my cohorts knew. Despite their being busy about the mission, I soon learned word had reached them. A tenseness came over us all. Then, about an hour into it, it was announced that Charlie had died, and, in shock, we quietly grieved, feeling the sting collectively and forcefully.  

It didn’t escape us that, if he’d been in the Fargo area that day, Charlie likely would have joined us. He was known for his outspoken, Christian views, and would not have entertained abortion promoters. 

Just three days later, my husband and I joined the Life Runners effort to help spread the simple message: “Remember the Unborn.” We gathered first at St. Mary’s Cathedral, launching the day in prayer, before setting off on a course that wound through the heart of downtown Fargo. After crossing the river, and nearly three miles later, we approached the abortion facility in Moorhead to pray for the unborn who have been, and will be, slaughtered there. 

Preparing to cross Highway 75, we were met with a scene nearly beyond words. Pat Castle, our leader and Life Runners founder, had warned us we were about to glimpse hell—and he wasn’t exaggerating. 

Normally, I would document such a scene by taking photos and videos, but as we crossed the road toward the throng of ravenous pro-abortion folks clamoring to get at us—some literally dressed like clowns and others decked out in macabre or sexually explicit outfits—I sensed an interior voice: “Just go quiet, Roxane. I’ll handle this.”  

With the other, mostly young, pro-lifers, I took my spot in line on the grass, just inches from our “greeters,” and sat down, my eyes closed, to pray as their taunting voices clamored on. Oddly, several “trans men” lifted their shirts, laughing, as they revealed where female breasts had been and only scars remained. 

Others were carrying signs denouncing the Church. I didn’t read them word for word. Instead, I stayed in prayer, drowning out vile words with phrases of light and love. I felt completely protected and calm; almost enough to take a nap. The feeling of peace that washed over me seemed as if from heaven, even as the gates of hell beckoned.  

I was so proud of the young people who joined us, showing great bravery in the sight of an outrageous spectacle, including chalk drawings of demons on the sidewalk just inches from our faces. It was as unhinged as you could imagine, and it took firm, moral courage to stay steady. But we did it, and I couldn’t help but think, again, of Charlie Kirk, whose courage had undoubtedly helped inspire our resolve.  

A week and a half later, we gathered again, in the same spot but more spread out, for the opening of 40 Days for Life. Our group stayed, again, calm and resolute, despite sounds of shovels scraping on pavement from abortion escorts trying to drown out our hope-filled messages.  

When our main speaker, Brittany Poppe, recounted how, at 17, the facility had helped her procure an abortion without her mother knowing in Fargo using the judicial bypass loophole, my heart broke. But when she addressed the escorts with their rainbow umbrellas and shovels directly, forthrightly and lovingly, Charlie returned to mind again. Surely, he would have been on the flatbed with Brittany, had he been near and not mercilessly killed just weeks earlier. 

More recently, one of the escorts laughed at me because a woman I’d tried talking to had ignored me, and instead, slipped into the abortion chamber to kill her child. It was a win for him, apparently, judging by his gleeful smirk. I might have been tempted toward deep grief, if not for the remembrance that Charlie’s death has brought me, and many: “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church.”  

The Church is under attack, as is life, today, but surely, the gates of hell shall not prevail against either.