Forgiving My Daughter's Killer

by Kate Grosmaire

  And so, we went about our spiritual lives separately. Because I was now involved in putting on a spring retreat for women, I knew that a men’s weekend retreat was coming up as well. More than anything else, I wanted Andy to attend . . . not because I expected any great conversion, but rather because I felt that he had no real, deep friendships. He knew people at work, but how many of them were good Christian men? I knew I couldn’t push him. So instead, I prayed. And prayed. Then, when I felt completely discouraged, I prayed some more.

  “God, please open Andy’s heart so that he’ll go on the retreat weekend and meet good Christian men.”

  At the very last minute—on Thursday night—he decided to go. When he returned a couple of days later, he seemed to have had a good time. That fall, we were walking through the Walmart parking lot, back to the scene of the Honey Nut Cheerios and Starbucks showdown. I was wondering if we’d get through our grocery shopping without conflict when Andy casually said, “I’m thinking of going to that class at church you mentioned.”

  “Really?” I tried to maintain a nonchalance in my voice that didn’t betray how much I’d prayed for this moment.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Just to learn.”

  In December 2000, Allyson and Ann made their First Communion. And on Easter Vigil in 2001, my husband and daughter Sarah became full members of the Church.

  Though Andy had become a member of the Catholic Church, our troubles did not end. We decided to go to counseling to save what was left of our union.

  After months of sessions, to our complete surprise, the counselor looked us straight in the eyes and delivered the bad news.

  “I’ll have to be honest with you,” she said. “You are the most incompatible couple I’ve ever met. I see no option for you but divorce.”

  It was one thing to be furious at Andy and wonder if I could ever get along with him. It was another for a stranger to diagnose us as “incurable.” Suddenly, Andy and I were united in a common cause: being furious at, then later laughing at, this counselor who was supposed to be helping us save our marriage. We didn’t go back to her. But a united front against a wacky counselor wasn’t enough to set our relationship on solid ground. Once, after Andy did something particularly offensive, I wondered how on earth we’d survive.

  Was that counselor right?

  “He doesn’t get me, God,” I prayed, after running to our bedroom, slamming the door, and burying my head in a pillow. “He’ll never get me, and he’s such a jerk. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Forgive him.”

  Where did that voice come from? And anyway, why should I forgive him? How will he learn his lesson if I forgive him?

  “Forgive him,” said the voice again. No matter how much I argued, the answer was the same: “Forgive him.”

  It seemed impossible.

  Then, something happened. It was one of those marital incidents between us that made me wonder, Will we survive this? Can I forgive him? Though I tried to suppress the incident, the pain of it lingered in my heart for several months. Finally, I asked for the help of a Catholic marriage counselor, who met with me in a chapel.

  “God, please be present with us,” he prayed.

  We talked about the pain I was feeling, and how I couldn’t shake it.

  “What does God want you to know about this?”

  As I sat there in the quiet chapel, I went from tears to laughter.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s like the song,” I said, and began singing, “Jesus loves me, this I know.”

  I heard God telling me that Andy loves me imperfectly. When I’m feeling imperfectly loved by my husband, I should remember that God loves me perfectly.

  What a simple message! God loves me always.

  I realized that Andy’s inability to trust me—and his need for control—came from his family history, not a lack of love for me. Suddenly, a weight had been taken from my shoulders. God loves me unconditionally, and he asks me to show that sort of love toward others. Slowly, I realized something else.

  I don’t love Andy perfectly either.

  Not only was I able to forgive Andy, but also I asked him to forgive me for not being able to love him perfectly either.

  In 2005 I joined the Secular Franciscan Order, which is a community of people who pattern their lives after Christ in the spirit of St. Francis of Assisi. That meant I stood up in church and said, “It is my intention to live a gospel life.”

  Of course, all Christians should be living a “gospel life,” but this was an intentional change, a permanent calling. In AD 1208, St. Francis showed people who weren’t able to commit to the priesthood (because of family commitments or because they weren’t ready to take a vow of poverty) how to live gospel-saturated lives—at home and at work—and to spread the good news of Christ among their neighbors and community. In “The Letter to All the Faithful,” he wrote that we should live “a renewed life characterized by charity, forgiveness, and compassion toward others.” And so, as I stood in front of the church and made my vows, I prayed.

  “God, help me to be patient and to be more forgiving.”

  My marriage, I knew, depended on it.

  Suddenly the world presented many opportunities to try out my new convictions. Very soon afterward, a church retreat planning committee was communicating via e-mail. As we discussed the itinerary for the retreat, some dissension arose among the “get up at a reasonable time” and the “sleep in” groups. When I emphasized that we should enforce “Lights Out” to encourage people to go to sleep at a reasonable hour since the wake-up call would be at 6:30 a.m., someone—perhaps intending to e-mail a smaller group of people that didn’t include me—wrote, “Who does Kate think she is? We can do whatever we want. It’s our retreat.” And, to make it even more maddening, he insinuated he didn’t want to listen to my counsel because I was a woman—even though I’d been placed in that position by Father Mike.

  It boiled my blood. My instinct was to fire off an e-mail defending myself, along with a few choice words for my accuser. This time, however, I stopped, took my hands away from the keyboard, and prayed.

  What does God want me to see in this e-mail?

  After collecting myself, I replied to everyone with a simple message: “The retreat manual was written for a purpose, to guide us on how to do the weekends. I think Father Mike would back me up on the schedule.”

  The next time I saw the man at church, I could tell he was embarrassed.

  “Hey,” he said, approaching me cautiously. “I’m sorry about that whole e-mail thing.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I forgive you.”

  It wasn’t the parting of the Red Sea, but sensing God transform my heart like that was nothing short of miraculous. But here’s the real miracle. Not only did I say that I forgave him, but I really—in my heart—forgave him.

  From that point on, I chose as often as possible to forgive people who hurt me—from the guy who cut me off in traffic, to a rude cashier, to Andy when our arguments involve more than cereal or coffee purchases. I was becoming a forgiving person, in spite of my natural inclination toward anger. I practiced forgiveness—repeatedly—on Andy.

  As I tried to live a more charitable life, my own shortcomings became even more obvious. Not only did I need to forgive; I needed forgiveness. Forgiveness became less of a commandment I was trying to follow and more of a lifestyle. My heart softened toward those who’d done wrong, especially now that I realized how much I do wrong.

  I began to relish my time in confession. To non-Catholics, it might seem odd to walk into a booth and tell a priest your sins. But all Christians should take confession seriously, because it is the way forgiveness is applied.

  James 5:16 says, “Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed.” Then, 1 John 1:9 says, “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” So, as we sat in the hospital watching An
n fight for her last breaths, it was important for me to be able to confess my sins during Easter week.

  I waited for Andy to come out of the small room that the Neuro ICU used as a consultation space, but which also served as a place for us to have occasional meetings. We met with the sheriff’s detectives in this room and conversed with the hospital staff there. It was the size of a small office, maybe ten by ten, and had four comfortable chairs, a table with a pretty lamp, and soothing pictures on the walls. On that day it also served as our makeshift confessional booth. Normally I prepare for confession by examining my conscience and trying to be aware of everything I’ve done that violated God’s command to love him and others by obeying his laws. This week, however, I hadn’t had time to really think about my sins with all that was going on. But I said a quick prayer to the Holy Spirit, asking for guidance in the thing that was most keeping me from a full relationship with God. And an odd little thing came to mind.

  I crossed myself, and began. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was one month ago.”

  Father Kevin looked at me kindly, waiting for my confession. Honestly, as I prayed, what came to mind was theft. I’d gotten into the habit of putting Splenda in my iced tea and taking a few of the yellow packets for my purse. I knew it wasn’t the worst sin in the world, but I also knew that restaurant owners across Tallahassee didn’t expect to supply my sweetener needs just because I bought one drink from them.

  Father Kevin is a jovial man who loves to laugh. He talks about God in simple, yet somehow deep, ways at the same time. He managed not to laugh at my big confession, but I detected a look of amusement passing over his face. Perhaps he expected some sort of angsty confession—of my lack of trust in God, of anger toward Conor, in despair over the tragedy that had come upon our house. Oddly, however, I felt closer to God that week than perhaps ever before. The church community had surrounded us, buoyed us with prayer, and loved us well.

  “Anything else?” he asked, his voice full of compassion.

  After lunch on Thursday, Andy went to Ann’s room to find some peace and quiet after a busy morning. He knew he wouldn’t have too many more opportunities to sit with her, so he valued every second. He liked to sit in her room and talk to her—about his feelings and thoughts, dealing with the family, or reading the latest comments from the online website, CaringBridge, where friends followed her progress. That afternoon, as on each one before, he prayed the daytime prayer of the Liturgy of the Hours with her. By this time, Andy realized that God was not going to heal Ann, but she was not lost to him yet. After he finished praying, he stood over Ann and listened to her steady breathing and the noise of the medical machines, looking for some sort of sign. He no longer had hope in the occasional twitch of Ann’s hands or legs. They were now as routine as everything else in the room.

  Father Will knocked on the door.

  “May I stay and pray?” he asked. His innocent and hopeful demeanor comforted Andy, so he nodded and moved to the foot of the bed. The grief in the room was so thick that both men waited in silence. We’d decided to take Ann off any means of artificial life support the next day, so it was now a matter of hours. Andy turned back to Ann, but when he looked at her, this time he looked beyond her. What prayers are left to say? he wondered. What am I still looking for?

  Father Will sat in a chair near Ann’s bed. The ventilator, which both men knew would soon be turned off, whooshed rhythmically. She appeared to be asleep.

  When Andy looked down at Ann’s body, something happened. Instead of seeing Ann lying there in the hospital bed, he saw Christ. He looked away for a moment and shook his head. Is this real?

  When he looked back at Ann, the vision remained.

  The Lord and Ann had become one. Where he normally saw Ann’s face, he saw the face of Jesus. They blended together but somehow still remained separate. Her arm trailed down to become the hand of Jesus. Both her hand and Jesus’ were wrapped in bandages—they had both been pierced, one by a nail and the other by the blast of a gun. There was an overwhelming presence of peace in the room. It wasn’t strong, but just ambient . . . as if it had always existed.

  He saw movement in the room, but he didn’t want to avert his eyes.

  “Father Will,” Andy whispered, “do you see?”

  Father Will stood up and walked over to Andy’s side. “What’s going on?” he asked, sensing the urgency in Andy’s voice.

  Andy motioned to the bed. “I see Jesus lying there in the bed. Do you see him? But Ann is there too.”

  “I don’t see it,” he said. “What else do you see? Both Jesus and Ann right here?”

  “I don’t see two distinct people,” Andy said. “They’re one and the same. I can’t tell where her body ends and Jesus’ begins. They’re the same.”

  “Jesus is here?”

  “There!” He pointed to the bed.

  Father Will leaned forward with a gentle and tender offering at the foot of the hospital bed, of the cross. He kissed the feet of Ann and Jesus. He moved to their bandaged hands and kissed them. He leaned forward and kissed the wounds on their heads. Andy was overwhelmed with a new sense of love in the room, as he watched Father Will touch the wounds of Christ, just as Thomas had touched Jesus’ wounds thousands of years ago. He recognized this person in the bed as someone to whom he’d given his life.

  What else can you do in the presence of God?

  Andy’s whole body began to rejoice and sing. He said he never felt more fully alive, as all the angst and sorrow of the past few days were temporarily replaced by an intense joy and happiness. He gazed onto the body of Christ, realizing that he’d misunderstood what had happened on Monday at two o’clock in the morning. He had believed he was having an “argument” with Ann over forgiving Conor. However, it wasn’t Ann at all. Jesus was the one asking Andy to forgive Conor.

  It was God himself.

  This penetrated his heart. When God asked him to forgive, it carried much more gravity than when Ann had been the one requesting it. Andy started crying, but not tears of sadness. Tears of joy flowed from his eyes as Jesus was asking him to do something.

  Forgive.

  The answer was yes. Andy forgave Conor right then and there, and not with the reluctant kind of forgiveness he’d proffered to Ann in exasperation a few nights before. Andy had never said no to Jesus before. Why would he start then?

  A sense of awe overcame Andy, and he fell to his knees. Tears of happiness rolled down his face. Father Will knelt beside him and put his hand on his shoulder. Andy bowed his head and thanked and praised God for his love and mercy.

  “Lord, how tender and merciful you are with me to come and show me what is so evident. You’ve always been with Ann. When she couldn’t speak, you spoke for her. How blind I’ve been not to recognize what’s so evident now. You’ve been and always will be one with her as she is now with you.” He felt Father Will hug him, and he realized that if Jesus was one with Ann, then he must also be one with Conor. “Yes, I will be obedient to what you ask,” he said. “Yes, I’ll forgive Conor.”

  When he raised his head, he looked back to the hospital bed.

  There, he saw only Ann, and he heard the whoosh of the machines once again.

  Before we left the hospital that night, we shared with the nurses our decision to remove Ann from the ventilator the following day. As the neurosurgeon had predicted, her organs were failing. We received the news that day that her pituitary gland was shutting down, causing other systems to fail. We had to face the inevitable.

  That evening we were in Ann’s bedroom discussing how things would go on Friday. I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that my name was scrawled on a list somewhere at the Leon County jail. I’d decided to go visit Conor.

  Even more than that, I’d decided to forgive him.

  It had started on Tuesday evening, when the McBrides came to see us. I’d said, “We don’t define Conor by that one moment.” For some reason, as I said those words, they reinforced
in my head what I was feeling in my spirit.

  I had forgiven the man who shot my daughter.

  Of course, this was in keeping with the vows I’d taken at church—to live a life of patience, charity, and forgiveness . . . a life “worthy of the gospel.” But I had no idea how Andy, the big bear of a daddy, would feel if I went to the jail and offered forgiveness to the person who changed our family forever.

  I wasn’t even sure if I could say the words, but I knew—at a very deep level—it was true.

  “I’m going to see Conor tomorrow.”

  “Really?” Andy said.

  “I want to see him before Ann dies,” I said. I definitely didn’t want to be the one to break the news that his fiancée had died. “I think it’d be simpler.”

  Andy nodded.

  “Is there anything you want me to tell him?” I asked hesitantly.

  “Actually, yes,” he said, looking at me. “Tell him I love him and forgive him.”

  CHAPTER 8

  There was a line.

  I stood in front of an older man wearing a faded Florida Gators T-shirt. A Hispanic couple, murmuring in Spanish, stood behind me while looking over their passports.

  Visitation started at 9:00 a.m., and I planned my arrival time to coincide. The night before, Andy and I had managed to attend a Holy Thursday service—the only Easter-related service we could make. Ann was shot on Palm Sunday, and our struggles seemed to be growing, unfolding, and swelling along with the story of Christ’s Passion. By this time on the morning of Good Friday—the actual Good Friday—Christ had just spent the night in prison. As I stood there in the Leon County jail, nervously wondering what awaited me inside, I could easily imagine the Messiah in his cell. Stone. Dark. Alone. Christ’s imprisonment felt real to me for the first time.

  The man in the Florida Gators T-shirt moved ahead in line, so I shuffled forward as well. I wondered if Christ had visitors. His disciples may have tried to be with him, but the men surely left. Were the women, so culturally insignificant, allowed to stay? Did someone tend to Christ before his death?