Forgiving My Daughter's Killer

by Kate Grosmaire

  She explained how her husband being killed right in front of his parents and children affected her family. Since he’d already pled guilty, he really had nothing to gain by participating in this process.

  However, he was a dad too. He felt he owed it to the woman—and even to his own daughter—to face what he had done. After reading her statement, she let him speak. He apologized and seemed to be deeply affected by the interaction. His attorney said he cried for days after the meeting. The King County Superior Court judge was not as affected by his remorse. A few days later, he sentenced the man to twenty-three years in prison, which was four years longer than the prosecutors had requested and was the maximum available under state law.

  This story shows how restorative justice is not a cookie-cutter response to crime, but rather a process that plays out in different ways within different situations. Certainly this woman’s letter to the offender affected the way he felt about what had happened. Being accountable for what you have done because you understand the personal consequences is a critical part of restorative justice. Additionally, this case shows that restorative justice isn’t always about getting a lighter sentence. Rather, it’s a more personal approach to justice. Lastly, I’m not sure if this woman decided to forgive the person who took her husband’s life, but restorative justice doesn’t require, encourage, or coerce victims to forgive the offenders.

  I think Sujatha put it best: “Restorative justice never requires forgiveness as a prerequisite for participation or as an outcome. We don’t want to put pressure on victims to forgive. But I can’t think of a better cauldron for cooking up some forgiveness than a restorative process.”2

  In fact, as I think about the main legacy of Ann’s life, I know it will be about challenging people to forgive. During the five years since her death, Andy and I have spoken to organizations and churches to share our message all over the country.

  It’s had an effect on people. We hear inspirational stories of people who have been victimized by intimate partner abuse and have lived robust lives afterward. In fact, a few days after the shooting, we received a letter from a hospital worker who had been present the day Ann was shot.

  She wanted us to know that she had been praying for us, and that she had been affected by our calmness during such a horrible tragedy. Ann had been one of her first trauma patients, but she had felt the Lord’s presence with us in the Emergency Room. She then went on to describe a past relationship that involved such extreme intimate partner abuse that she herself had been the one who landed in the Emergency Room. Now she has a wonderful husband and has forgiven her ex-boyfriend. She was thankful to have found comfort in our strength.

  Also, I had a friend who had a distant relationship with her mother. Though they lived in the same town, she never liked seeing her or spending time with her because of many challenging incidents from her childhood. Several months after Ann’s death, she told me that she could not call herself my friend and ignore my message of forgiveness. She forgave her mother for all the hurts of her childhood. In her case, the forgiveness happened in her heart. Her mom probably would have been confused by a confrontation, so my friend just decided to let go of the hurt and forgive her mom. Afterward she felt so liberated from the old hurts that she went on a long weekend vacation with her mother and had the best time. She is so grateful for the new relationship with her mom.

  Another woman, after reading the article in the New York Times, told me that she went to her mom’s house, unannounced. Once there, she told her mom that she forgave her for abandoning her at a young age. This led to their reconciliation, and her brother and sister were reconciled as well.

  Another woman told me about her granddaughter who died of a drug overdose. The grandmother was very bitter and angry with the drug dealer who had sold her granddaughter the drugs. After hearing our story, she realized how bitterness was ruining her life. She prayed for God’s help in letting go and eventually was able to forgive the drug dealer. In her case it was not in person. But once she forgave him, she was released from the bitterness and anger that had previously eaten her up.

  In the fall of 2011, we attended a prayer breakfast at the sheriff’s office. One of the sheriff’s deputies told us about how his partner had been shot and died in his arms. He told us how he had to tell the widow and how his partner’s death affected him so much that he left South Florida to come to North Florida. His lack of forgiveness and hatred for the shooter caused him to suffer greatly—physically as well as emotionally. When he heard our story, he told us he felt compelled to drive to the death row prison to see the man who had shot and killed his partner. I don’t know if he ever made that trip or not, but the seed was planted in his heart.

  I love the stories of forgiveness that I hear, because they all point to the wonderful diversity in what people experience when they choose to forgive. It just looks different for everyone. Here are some things we’ve learned about forgiveness since we were forced into what many have called the “radical forgiveness” of Conor.

  1. Forgiveness isn’t a onetime event. Peter asked Jesus, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?” Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times” (Matt. 18:21–22). Some translations say “seventy times seven,” meaning 490 times. But after our experience with Conor, I wonder if that scripture doesn’t more accurately refer to the constant and repetitive forgiveness we must give for the same offense.

  When I tell the story of forgiving Conor within the week of the shooting, some people recoil. “That’s not real forgiveness,” they say. “That’s an instinct. Real forgiveness takes time.” In a way this is true. I forgave Conor, however, when he was in the Leon County jail; but I also might need to forgive him when I walk by Ann’s room or when I set the table for Thanksgiving without Ann’s dinner plate. Forgiveness is a process, a habit, and a way of life . . . not a distinct act.

  2. Forgiveness isn’t primarily a feeling or a sentiment. Some people believe they are not the types of people who can easily forgive. They look at Andy and me as if we’re saints—pious people who speak Scripture to each other in encouragement instead of those who have been known to fight in the cereal aisle over Honey Nut Cheerios. Forgiveness is not the first instinct, nor is it an easy path. It’s a decision that says you believe the Bible when it says that vengeance belongs to God.

  “Forgiveness must be granted before it can be felt, but it does come eventually,” Tim Keller wrote in The Reason for God. “It leads to a new peace, a resurrection. It is the only way to stop the spread of the evil.”3 In the hospital, when I asked myself what Ann would want from this, the answer would always come back: “Peace.” Andy says it this way: “Because we forgave, we didn’t have to go to prison with Conor.” Forgiveness brought us a measure of peace that we could not have had otherwise.

  3. Forgiveness has less to do with the person who harmed you than you think. Mother Teresa is frequently attributed with saying,

  People are often unreasonable, illogical and self-centered; Forgive them anyway.

  If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives; Be kind anyway. . . .

  If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you; Be honest and frank anyway. . . .

  If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous; Be happy anyway.

  The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow; Do good anyway.

  Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough; Give the world the best you’ve got anyway.

  You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and God; It was never between you and them anyway.4

  That last line contains much truth. When we forgave Conor, it had more to do with the relationship Andy and I had with Christ rather than the relationship we had with Conor.

  4. Forgiveness doesn’t require ignoring the offense. Forgiveness does not require a willful blindness to other people’s failures or misdeeds. It requ
ires truth—an honest evaluation of what’s been done and what’s been lost—and a determined decision to forgive in spite of that loss. In some translations the Lord’s Prayer says, “Forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors” (Matt. 6:12). I have prayed with people who are having trouble forgiving, and I try to explain it in a practical way: What does the person owe you? Love? Respect? A nonchaotic childhood? That is their debt against you. Can you forgive that debt? Release it to God for him to collect.

  5. Forgiveness isn’t a pardon. When we decided to forgive Conor, it didn’t mean he was less guilty of shooting that gun. It simply meant that we were entrusting his soul and his judgment to God. Conor said that our forgiveness allowed him to accept the responsibility for what he’d done without being condemned. When we refused to be his enemy, we refused to give him the refuge of our hatred—where he could wallow and become, in a way, our victim. Forgiveness allows him to deal with what he’d done. It doesn’t mean the injustice should stand or that what he did was okay. It means we don’t have to nurse our bitterness and plan ways to get back at the person who hurt us. Instead, we can trust that God, who sits on the throne, is in control of our souls.

  6. Forgiveness does not always mean reconciliation. Forgiveness is only one side of the coin. The other is repentance. When Andy and I attended a marriage workshop, one of the talks posited that there are two parts to reconciliation. The first is to forgive and forget. Of course, people are not able to forget serious offenses, nor would they want to. Certainly we could never forget that Ann has died. Instead, it means not holding the offense against the other person. In the marriage workshop, we learned not to bring up past hurts if they have already been forgiven.

  The other side of the coin? Repent and repair. For reconciliation to occur, the offenders must be sorry for what they have done. They must also be willing to make amends for whatever hurt they caused. Of course, reconciliation is not possible if the offender is not sorry; but forgiveness still is. Forgiveness can exist without reestablishing a relationship and without having a relationship with the offender at all. Furthermore, forgiveness is not saying, “Yes, you may hurt me again.”

  7. Forgiveness isn’t optional. One of the most frequent comments we hear goes something like this: “I could never forgive someone if they did that to my family.” Others say that our forgiveness is “radical” or “supernatural.” Nothing could be further from the truth. We didn’t forgive Conor because we’re some sort of super-Christians. Rather, forgiveness is a basic Christian requirement. When Jesus tells us to love our enemies, it is not an empty Hallmark-card sentiment. Why does he ask us to forgive? He elaborates, “For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins” (Matt. 6:14–15). This—along with the parable of the unforgiving servant and the teachings of Paul—indicates that we can’t withhold forgiveness and expect to receive it.

  One sunny day, Andy and I were walking along the Miccosukee Canopy Road Greenway and stopped at a bench that was donated by the McBrides to honor the memory of our daughter. The bench is placed right along the pathway, so cyclists needing a break, walkers needing a seat, or joggers needing a snack can have a place of rest.

  Andy and I sat down on the bench and enjoyed the feel of the sun on our skin. I looked out over the field and remembered the days when Ann would ride her horse BJ to the park on lazy afternoons. As comforting as those memories were, however, I also imagined what might have been. I imagined what Ann’s wildlife refuge would have been like . . . Rescued horses would’ve been munching lazily on the grass while birds of prey flew overhead.

  We keep Ann’s legacy alive through our work with St. Francis Wildlife Association—work that Conor will someday take up on Ann’s behalf. But her story—our story—is about more than a refuge for animals. Rather, this story presents a fuller picture of forgiveness in the ordinary, day-to-day lives of rather typical people.

  Forgiveness is not a pardon. But it is a refuge: a place where broken people can come for healing, where the guilty can come for relief, where the wronged can come for hope.

  We must develop and maintain the capacity to forgive. He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love. There is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. When we discover this, we are less prone to hate our enemies.

  —MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.1

  Q & A WITH CONOR MCBRIDE

  Nancy French

  Wakulla Correctional Institution

  March 2015

  (Responses edited and arranged for grammar and clarity)

  How did you meet Ann?

  Our sophomore year in high school, we were in the same chemistry class . . . But we did not like each other at all. Honestly, I was a judgmental know-it-all. It was an early morning class, so Ann came in tired, grumpy, and unhappy, wearing a hoodie. I thought she and her friend were slackers who didn’t care about school, so I didn’t want anything to do with them.

  The next year, we were in the same English class and sat across from each other in connected, prefab desks. I have clonus, a mild form of cerebral palsy, so I don’t have the greatest motor control in my legs. I kept kicking her under the table, but didn’t realize it. In my mind, I was just moving my feet.

  “What?” she asked, after being kicked one too many times. “What?!”

  So, that’s how our relationship began.

  We really connected later in drama. She was the stage manager for 12 Angry Men, and I was one of the minor jurors . . . Juror #2. Eventually, we became good friends. We’d hang out and talk for hours. We got along very well, and—eventually—it became romantic. We were best friends, who later fell in love.

  Did you and Ann ever talk about faith?

  Because of my own personal prejudice against God, we didn’t. We started a class together—the Catholic introduction to the faith program, which explained everything it meant to be Catholic. I just wasn’t into it. I was only doing it for her, because she was interested in it. I felt like I should probably be involved in faith, but I didn’t really understand it.

  I remember driving home one night, and I said, “I just don’t get it. I don’t see the point. What is this? Some people just need that good moral foundation and that guide. But beyond that?”

  So, we never talked more about it.

  I wish we had.

  Please describe your faith journey.

  If you had talked to me before all of this, I would’ve laughed at the idea of God. I didn’t believe in him in any way, shape, or form. I was an atheist, because I believed there was no God, that anyone who believed in God was either stupid or deluded, and that most religious individuals were snake oil salesmen. It was all a con.

  But when I started dating Ann, I went to mass with her. Interestingly enough, I felt empty as I sat there at Good Shepherd Catholic Church . . . it was a weird emptiness that I couldn’t explain. Now I realize that it was God trying to tell me that I was missing something.

  When I killed Ann, the whole process of faith started. I had never really prayed before until I was in jail. My first prayers were, “God, help me. I have no idea what’s going on.” I mean, I knew what I did, but I was confused by it.

  I shot her on Sunday. When Kate came to see me, we were both crying. Obviously it was very emotional.

  “Conor, no matter what happens,” she said, “we love you and forgive you.” That was the birthplace of my faith, because normal people don’t do that. The human, worldly response to someone killing someone’s daughter is to hate that person.

  The Grosmaires should’ve hated me; they should’ve condemned me. That’s the normal reaction. Yet they responded in love and have continued to do that. They’ve visited, they’ve written, and I call them every Monday. It’s really a tangible forgiveness.

  For me, that was proof of God. [Their forgiveness] had to be the love of God shining thro
ugh them. There’s no other explanation for it. It’s not normal, and it’s not rational. That was the point where I started to believe.

  Since then, I’ve had ups and downs. I didn’t know what I was missing. I didn’t realize God was there. Now, nothing can change my mind of that. I absolutely, positively know God. There’s no doubt in my mind [of his existence]. Andy talked about the love of God, and how God can forgive anything. That’s real to me. I’ve seen that in the Grosmaires. I have friends [in prison] who struggle to believe in forgiveness. They ask, “How can God forgive me?” Yet I’ve been blessed with this clear sign that it can happen. I guess I needed that . . . some sort of physical proof. It’s one thing to say, “God is real.” But it’s another to show that the love, grace, and forgiveness of God is real too.

  I don’t know if I would’ve believed in God without this incident. I’m not saying it was a good thing that this tragedy happened or that it should’ve happened.

  But because it happened, I now believe.

  Was there a moment of salvation that you remember?

  My salvation was a gradual thing. Some people talk about the day they prayed the sinner’s prayer—that absolute moment. Looking back, I know Kate and Andy’s decision to forgive was that moment for me, but it was more of a gradual realization. A few months after their forgiveness, I began to understand the spiritual impact. When I was reading about God’s forgiveness and God’s grace in the Bible, a light went off. “Oh! I know what the Bible is talking about.”

  Why did you put down Kate’s name on your visitation list after you were arrested?

  In retrospect, it was of God.

  At the time, I didn’t know why I put her name down. I knew I didn’t put Andy’s name down because I was terrified of seeing him. I didn’t expect Kate to come. I wasn’t expecting her visit at all on that day.

  When my name was called at Leon County jail, I walked up to the visitation booth, which is in the middle of a big V. I came out of my cell and—for about thirty feet—I could see her in the window through the plexiglass. My heart was absolutely pounding. All I could think to say is, “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.” Sorry doesn’t even begin to encompass the emotion, but I just felt so terrible. Seeing her and facing her was really rough. I wasn’t sure what to expect; I just knew I was scared. There was a part of me that really wanted to talk to her. I had a desire to confess, a desire to express how sorry I was and how much I regretted everything. There was a lot of fear and a lot of sorrow to see Kate, whom I knew I’d hurt and was grieving. Yet, she came to see me. [Pause.] I can’t really explain it more than that. I can’t do it justice with words. I’m sorry.