I’ve been to many funerals over the last 20 years, but the sheer scale of this memorial was unique. By the time I arrived, the church parking lot had long been filled up and so was the overflow parking at the school administration building next door. The residential streets behind the church were lined with cars, a few sticking out past no-parking signs. Local news vans lined the curb. It was standing room only in a building that could easily seat 800. The man they were all there to remember was beloved by a multitude.
Nic Crews was a 34-year-old husband and father of two, with a third child due in a matter of weeks. He’d been sobered by life, became a disciple at Kennesaw State, and wasn’t the type of guy who majored in small talk. He was a man of depth, and the circle of his closest friends reflected it. It wasn’t a homogenous group, but they were all substantive people. That depth made him relentlessly curious and pushed him toward excellence in every domain of his life.
He was built like an inside linebacker and had all the stereotypical passion of someone with a full head of bright orange hair. But his imposing frame guarded a soft heart. Before going into social work, helping veterans at a local Veterans Affairs (VA) office, Nic had been applying for the National Guard. Saving people was grafted into his soul. Children are often the best barometer for someone’s character, and kids loved him. None more so than his oldest son, who by all accounts absolutely worshipped his dad.
On Tuesday, March 17th, 2026, a man with no connection to Nic walked into the Jasper VA and shot him in the head at point blank range. Police killed the shooter on the scene. Nic died the next day.
My wife and several friends who knew Nic well all testified to what a unique spirit he had. I never got the chance to meet him myself. That’s my loss because he sounded like the type of person I would have loved to know. Sitting against the back right wall of the sanctuary, I began to understand the fuller picture of who he was.
The clearest illumination came from his wife, Alyssa. Her brother Caleb read the testimony of his sister as she sat in the front row eight months pregnant. For five minutes, the somber room burst into explosions of laughter as she described the intricacies of his personality. She painted the picture of a man who was completely authentic, unafraid of going deep, and totally comfortable in his own skin. He loved Sabrina Carpenter, was a long suffering Falcons fan and never took himself too seriously. She implored those that knew Nic to laugh as they reflected on their memories and to strive to find joy in the blessing that was knowing him.
The momentary laughter and lightheartedness was unexpected and beautiful. But I couldn’t stop thinking about his kids. I thought of my own boys, happy and innocent, saying goodbye to their dad on a typical weekday morning and then being hit with the news that I’m never coming home. In an instant their whole world flipped upside down. The confusion, pain and loneliness that those poor young souls had to face left knots in my stomach that couldn’t be unwound.
As the memorial reached its close, a friend of mine named Tony Karamitas approached the stage to pray. I closed my eyes, bowed my head, and clasped my hands. What followed sent a shock through my body:
“Sometimes we try to find silver linings, or explain grief away, or say, ‘At least this’ or ‘Maybe it was God’s will.’ This was not your will, Father. We know it wasn’t. You didn’t create Nic to finish like this.”
Paradigm shift
The next time I ran into Tony was at Mercer University, where our mutual friend Jeff Hickman was graduating with his Master’s of Divinity. Standing between the narrow, well-worn pews after the ceremony, I steered the conversation straight to the memorial. Overflowing with gratitude and surprise at his prayer, I started drilling him with questions. I’d never heard anything like that in a church before, where did it come from? What was the theology behind it?
I thought we’d end up talking about the authors and books that shaped our thinking. Instead, I received an answer that was much simpler, and much more powerful.
Tony described the aftermath of the shooting and the handful of people that he turned to for support. One of those people was a brother named Jim Long. Trying to put words to what he felt, Tony told Jim, “This is so painful and I don’t know what to do with the anger. But I know this is God’s will.” Jim paused and responded:
“I need to stop you right there. I know you’re tempted to say that but this is not God’s will. It wasn’t God’s will for Eve to take the apple, and neither was this. He can bring beauty out of the ashes, but this was not his will. You think you’re angry? That pales in comparison to God.”
Tony felt instantly liberated. It didn’t erase the pain, but it transformed the frame. He didn’t need academic books or hours of lecture. A couple of sentences of good theology from a trusted friend served as the salve on a gaping wound. God wasn’t aloof and unmoved by the death of his child. He was grieved and angered by it.
Two days later, in a sanctuary packed with cameras rolling and hundreds of people looking for answers, Tony stood up and gave the room what Jim had given him.
Divine preparation
What happened four days before Nic’s death, in this same sanctuary, is providence. I don’t know what else to call it. On Friday night, March 13th, the North River Church of Christ held a night of lament, the first of its kind. The goal: to be formed more into the likeness of Christ, with a specific focus on learning how to lament like Jesus did.
Jeff Hickman, the lead evangelist at North River, had organized the event. While studying to become a chaplain, mostly serving in hospitals, he was exposed to death on a more regular basis and began to see a real gap in the church’s ability to grieve well. The night of lament was a first step toward filling that void.
We used to be members at North River, but relocated to a smaller, sister congregation closer to where we live a couple years ago. We’ve maintained many friendships, but as I walked into this room on a dark Friday night I didn’t recognize all that many faces. I had no idea what to expect .
Jeff opened with a short 10-minute lesson on the nature and purpose of lament, followed by scripture readings, songs, and open prayer for anyone who wanted to share. It was one of the most formative lessons I’ve ever heard. For two hours, a steady stream of tears ran down my face.
Jeff explained that our modern pattern is to repress pain and isolate ourselves in grief. And that this has bled into the church too. We often don’t have the language or the practices to bring our pain, confusion, and anger to God, and that shows up in empty clichés. But that isn’t the pattern God gives us. The pattern of the Psalms, the early church, and Jesus himself is to direct our sorrow upward to God — not endless grumbling, but real mourning that wants to end in trust. God isn’t fragile. He welcomes it.
The longer-term goal, Jeff said, was for lament to become a reflex in the church; not a top-down event on the calendar, but something we initiate with each other naturally:
“The longer-term goal is that something really tough might happen in your life or in the lives of someone you care about, or something in this country or this world that is just heartbreaking. And you or someone in your family group will send out a group text saying, ‘You know what. I’m going to welcome you guys over to my house so that we can just have a night of lament, read some scriptures and just get this out.’ You don’t need the church to plan something for you. This will be a spiritual reflex when the world shows you what it’s really all about sometimes — and it’s heartbreaking.”
Four days later, Jeff would be presiding over the memorial of one of the church’s most beloved members. The night of lament wasn’t scheduled in response to Nic’s death. It preceded it.
Big programs, compelling sermon series, and quality kids’ classes aren’t what define a church. The real marker is simpler: what kind of people does it form? A pastor willing to wade into unfamiliar territory, a congregation willing to follow him there, a community shaped to grieve honestly together — that’s the church at her best.
Life to the full can’t be found by avoiding the uncomfortable. Life is messy, and sometimes it’s horrific. The temptation to wade in the shallow waters, chasing happiness at every turn, builds a foundation that crumbles the moment tragedy arrives. Depth is what gives life meaning, and it’s often in the darkest seasons that what really matters rises to the surface, if we let it.
I think of a line from Les Misérables. As Jean Valjean lies on his deathbed, reunited with his adopted daughter, he said: “It is nothing to die; it is dreadful not to live.”
Nic was fully alive. The flood of people changed by his spirit, the passion he poured into every part of his life, the family he left behind all testify to that. The tragedy isn’t that Nic failed to live. The tragedy is that his story was cut off mid-sentence.
I never met Nic, but I can’t wait to get to know him on the other side.
Author’s note: This is a shorter version of a longer essay. The full piece is on my Substack, Against Abandonment.
