It was a quiet Tuesday morning when the unthinkable happened: Reese Courtney—son of Greg and Traci Courtney of Lookeba—was lost in a tragic accident on October 14, 2025. In the hours since, shock, grief, and longing have echoed throughout the lives of those who knew him. Reese was young—not just in years, but in spirit—and his sudden departure has left a silence that will be impossible to fill.
Reese was never one to sit inside on a sunny day. He had a deep love for the outdoors—hunting, exploring, simply breathing in wide-open air. Many remember him walking through the woods, calling out quietly to nature, a fishing rod or a rifle slung over his shoulder, a dog trailing loyally behind. He carried with him a reverence for every bird’s wing, every rustle in the underbrush. That passion to push boundaries and feel free was part of what made Reese, Reese.
But beyond his love for adventure was a warmth that turned strangers into friends. He had a way of making people feel seen—with his bright eyes, gentle humor, soft words, or sometimes just that knowing smile. You never left his presence feeling small. He would remember your birthday, ask how the day went, and if you were hurting, he’d quietly sit beside you until the pain faded enough to breathe again.
When news of the accident spread, the heartbreak rippled fast. Greg and Traci were left without their firstborn. Siblings, cousins, friends—all caught between disbelief and the urge to reach out, to hold one another for just a moment longer. The community rallied: quiet prayers, candlelit vigils, flowers left at roadways and trailheads, hand-written notes tucked in mailboxes. In the shared grief, stories began to surface—how Reese quietly carried firewood for an elderly neighbor, how he laughed with little kids, how he once walked miles to bring home medicine for a friend.
Though Reese’s time was far too short, his memory has already taken on a life of its own. People talk of starting a youth outdoors program in his name—teaching safe hunting, wilderness skills, and respect for creation. In schools, teachers plan to use his story as a reminder of kindness in action: that a gentle heart can still roam wild. And in homes across Lookeba, families gather to tell stories—of Reese’s first steps, his first hunt, the evening he stayed up late sharing ghost stories by firelight.
In the coming days, Greg and Traci will lean on memories, on stories, on the community that loves them. They will feel the empty chair at holiday meals, the echo of their son’s voice in silent rooms, the ache of what might have been. But they will also feel the presence of hundreds who carry Reese in their own hearts. His laughter, his spirit, his gentle boldness—they will not vanish.
Reese Courtney is gone from sight but never from memory. As the sun falls tomorrow, and the tall pines whisper in the wind, his spirit lingers in the hush of the forest, in the hush of hearts that loved him—and will love him always.