by Debra Moerke
Now on the way to Hannah’s funeral, I had to acknowledge that my sin was no different from Karen’s. We had both taken the lives of our children. Could there be forgiveness waiting for her as well? I knew the answer was yes. God will always forgive if we ask. Would I forgive her as Jesus had forgiven me? As much as I wanted to believe I could, I was acutely aware that I harbored judgment toward her. There in the car I asked the Lord to help me forgive her, just as I’d been forgiven.
We entered the cemetery grounds and parked behind a line of cars. The dank smell of moist dirt and the fresh scent of cut grass swept over me as I got out of the car. Forty feet away, a canopy of soft cream-colored canvas flapped in the wind. Under it lay a small white casket. Two pastors I recognized from the community stood side by side near the canopy, holding Bibles in their hands. A modest crowd gathered around, laying flowers on the grass. The sight of such a tiny casket pierced my heart. For some, today might bring closure to this nightmare. But I wasn’t ready for closure. My heart was torn wide open.
As Al led us toward the gravesite, a man broke away from the crowd and approached us. With the sun reflecting off his sunglasses I couldn’t make out who he was until, as he drew nearer, he removed the glasses. It was Karen’s brother. I’d first met him the day I met Hannah, as she’d been staying with him and his wife and children while Karen was in the hospital giving birth to Ally. I’d also taken Hannah to his place a few times to visit. He was marching toward me with such fervency that Al moved protectively to my side. Then, a few steps away from me, he opened his arms for an embrace. As he squeezed me tightly, he began to sob. “I am so sorry. I know you tried.”
His words grabbed my heart, and I answered through tears, “We all tried. I am so sorry for your loss.”
He looked at Al and our children. “I want to thank all of you.” Then, wiping tears from his face, he turned and walked back to the small crowd. We followed slowly behind.
In the distance, I spotted three DFS employees standing back, away from the crowd. I was sure their attendance was out of respect. Many in the community were angry and felt DFS was responsible for the tragedy. I recognized one of them as the caseworker, Ellen. I thought back to when she, Karen, and I had set up the six-month plan to work the children back into their mother’s care. It was she who, when about to present the plan to the court, was told the judge had ordered the children to be sent home that day.
I looked at Al, knowing he’d understand my desire to go speak to them, then walked toward Ellen. We wrapped our arms around each other and wept.
Her voice choked with emotion as she whispered, “We tried. You tried.”
I then looked at her supervisor next to her. As a foster mom I had known him through many years of service. I cared about and respected him. As I moved closer, he lowered his head to avoid my eyes and began to cry.
“Don’t do this,” I whispered, wiping tears from my own eyes. “We have known each other too long. You have to look at me.” He raised his head enough for me to see his face covered with tears.
“We will all get through this and it will never happen again,” I said. He gave a slight nod as I embraced him. With his face buried against my shoulder, he sobbed, his body shaking, but he wouldn’t bring his arms up to respond with a hug. He was broken, heart and soul. I held him for a moment. Then, hearing one of the pastors begin to speak, I returned to my family.
I couldn’t keep the image of Hannah’s little body stuffed inside a black plastic trash bag for months from invading my thoughts. I stared at the white casket. Darkness always wants to overtake the light. I won’t let it. When the tsunami of sorrow shredded my soul, I closed my eyes and asked God to replace those images with a picture of him embracing Hannah. I believed that she was in his arms the moment she took her last breath. She was with him—the best place she could possibly be. No more fear. No more pain.
The service ended in prayer. The final words from the pastor were “Go in peace.”
As the mourners dispersed, Hannah’s father made his way to us. I recognized him from the few times he’d dropped Hannah off after a visit. “Thank you for everything you did for Hannah,” he said, his voice breaking. He turned and left.
Al, the children, and I then sought out the Bower children to give each of them comforting hugs. (Andrew had been located at the home of one of Karen’s friends.) It broke my heart to see their grief-filled faces. We shook the pastors’ hands and thanked them for their messages of hope and salvation. Then, lagging behind many of the others, we headed for our van.
Karen would be transported from the detention center to the prison within a few days. I had promised to tell her about the funeral, so I planned to visit her the next day.
Once again, I sat in a visiting cell, waiting for Karen. My mind flashed through a reel of events—the phone call notifying me of Hannah’s death, the first visit with Karen and the revelation of her being pregnant with her eighth child, and scenes from the funeral. So much to digest in such a short time. The sound of the security doors unlocking down the hall pulled me back to the present.
We were nearly face-to-face again. Was I ready? At least I was less anxious than I had been during the first visit.
Karen moved through the door and shuffled toward me. She looked pale. I gave her a hug as the officer left, locking us in.
“How are you doing?”
Karen shrugged. “I’m okay, but I didn’t sleep at all last night. My back is bothering me, and it’s cold in the infirmary. They don’t let you have much in the way of a blanket when you’re on suicide watch.”
“Are you suicidal?”
“I don’t think so, but it’s their policy due to my crime and hormonal changes from the pregnancy.” Karen’s tone was flat, almost lifeless.
“Maybe you can get some rest this afternoon.” My comment sounded so normal in this abnormal setting.
“Did you make it to the funeral yesterday?” Karen asked, shifting in her chair.
“Yes, I did.” A fresh wave of grief washed over me, and for a moment I couldn’t speak.
She tapped her fingers lightly on the table. “Will you tell me about it? Who was there? Were all my kids there? Who were they with? How are they doing?” Her eyes teared up as she probed for information. I knew she wanted me to paint the whole picture. I took a deep breath.
“It was windy, but beautiful.” We both smiled since Casper is almost always windy. “The service was at the cemetery. There were many people there—your children, your parents and brother, two pastors, DFS representatives, our family, Hannah’s daddy, and I believe his family and relatives. The pastors gave a nice message. Someone donated a lovely little white casket for Hannah.” I paused when I saw tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Good. That was nice.” I sensed she had desperately wanted Hannah laid to rest with a proper burial and meaningful service. I sensed Karen was also ready to rest. Though Hannah’s death was a shock to everyone else, it wasn’t to her. It was a heavy burden she’d carried for almost a year. Dark circles outlined her eyes, which told me she was done. Done, and ready to give it all up.
The murder. The lies. The hiding.
I leaned toward her. We were both ready to talk. Our safe corners were not needed anymore.
I told her that the children were all dressed up and looked good, and that I gave each of them a hug. She smiled. Then we sat in silence again. Reflections of Hannah danced through my mind. Her bright smile and shining eyes. Her expressions of wonder and her love of being cuddled. I realized that Karen never mentioned Hannah’s name. I felt grief beginning to crawl up through my heart. My throat ached with a stifled sob. I wiped my tears away before they could run down my face. I could not let the floodgate open. Not now. Not here.
Finally, Karen broke the silence. “You know, I wanted to go but they wouldn’t let me.”
I couldn’t believe what she had said. “Did you really think they would let you go? Do you think the authorities would let you out of here, even
cuffed with police security around you? You are the one who took her life. There would have been an emotional riot at the gravesite if you were there.” I could hear myself getting louder and more agitated, my tone accusatory, so I stopped to get control of myself.
“I didn’t mean I wanted to be at the gravesite. I was hoping I could be in a police car and watch from far away.”
I stared at her for a moment, then looked away, too baffled to respond.
Silence again.
Karen cleared her throat. “There isn’t any forgiveness for what I have done, is there?”
Her words jolted me. Forgiveness? I wasn’t ready to talk about that yet. I was still in shock and grief. How should I answer her? Forgiveness for killing Hannah? Whose forgiveness did she want?
“Whose forgiveness?”
“God’s.”
I leaned back and waited for the Lord to give me the words. They had to come from him. They had to be his truth, not my judgment.
“Yes. There is forgiveness . . . even for what you have done.” Even as I spoke the words I marveled at their truth. “I’m sure God is grieved right now because he loved Hannah. He loves Hannah now. But he loves you as well.” I knew the Holy Spirit was speaking because all I wanted to do was lash out and hurt her.
“God tells us in his Word that for those who love him and humble themselves, any sin can be forgiven. Before his conversion, the apostle Paul hated people who believed Jesus was the Son of God, hunting them down to imprison, torture, and put them to death. God had to allow a crisis in Paul’s life in order to get his attention. I would say you are in the same place. For Paul, there was forgiveness waiting for him. Not only forgiveness, but then he was used tremendously to spread the gospel of Jesus. Taking another person’s life is not an unforgivable sin if a person is truly sorry and genuinely turns to God. First John 1:9 says, ‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness’ (ESV). Yes, Karen, there is forgiveness for what you have done, but only through Jesus.”
She nodded as tears ran down her cheeks.
My heart raced. We said nothing more. Only God could speak to her at that point. I had no more words of hope for her other than what I had shared. She had no more questions. She’d asked the ultimate question. I’d shared the ultimate truth.
I felt my heart of grief and anger changing as I sat in the cold visitation cell, inviting God to speak to both of us. “Do you want to find that forgiveness and hope in Jesus?” I heard myself asking. My heart swelled as the Holy Spirit moved in and took over. It was only by God’s power that I could share such hope. It was only by his grace that I could tell her the truth about her sin.
“Yes. I want him in my life. I want him in my heart, and I pray for his forgiveness.”
I reached for her hands, and she gripped mine firmly. Her hands were warm and moist with sweat. We both bowed our heads, and I said I would lead her in a simple prayer. It wasn’t anything memorized or fancy. I told Karen that we are all sinners who need a Savior. We must accept Jesus as God’s Son, who came to earth so that we might find salvation, hope, and forgiveness in him. Then I prayed, “Come into my heart, Lord. Save me and forgive me of my sins. I love you and want to follow you. Amen.”
Karen repeated my words, and it seemed that she truly sought God’s forgiveness for herself. Did I doubt her sincerity? I wondered about it, but I knew God well enough to know that wasn’t a question for me to ask or answer. That was between Karen and God alone. I didn’t doubt God had heard her prayer. I didn’t doubt he could save her and forgive her. I had done my part. I had shared the gospel and prayed with Karen. Was I able to forgive as freely as God? That was the question between God and me. And I hated facing the truth that I didn’t yet know the answer. All I knew for certain was that I was still hurting. I was still angry.
Chapter 12Unexpected Costs
IN THE DAYS FOLLOWING THE FUNERAL, a solemn silence hovered over our home. Scenes from the gravesite flickered through my mind. The driveway into the cemetery, the fresh mound of dirt on the grass, the Bower children weeping, the caseworkers isolated on the edge of the crowd—it all circled around in my head as if each picture were on a slow-moving carousel that never stopped. Tears often came when I was alone.
Each day I hoped for healing that would bring my family to a place of normalcy. At night, I could hear muffled weeping from my children’s bedrooms. For some, the funeral may have brought closure. But not for me. And not for my family. Would we ever move on? It was as if our whole family had been hit by a Mack truck. Lying on the road, we were all bleeding, all hurting. We couldn’t help each other. I knew we needed someone to help us address our pain. Someone we could trust, who could guide us in expressing our hearts.
I called my friend and Christian counselor, Ron, who invited us all to his office after hours. He would give us all the time we needed. The kids did not want to go but agreed. Ron placed folding chairs in a small circle, opened in prayer, and then invited us each to share how we felt. It was painful but good for each of us to hear what the others were feeling and thinking. Ron’s gentle spirit and soft voice helped to lessen the uncomfortable meeting. After an hour and a half and many tears, our family left Ron’s kind embrace and drove home in silence.
The days dragged, and then one morning on cleaning day, the yellow wall phone rang. Charles was vacuuming, and over the noise I could hear him yell, “Mom! Phone!” I headed for the kitchen. As I lifted the receiver I hollered over the vacuum. “Hello!”
The soft voice on the other end was barely audible. I dragged the four-foot spiral cord across the kitchen to a corner where the roar of the vacuum would be less intrusive.
“Hello!” I repeated. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”
“Hi. This is Renee. Karen’s friend.” I had met Renee on a few occasions and had seen her at the funeral and given her a hug. Why would she be calling me?
Cupping the phone, I lowered my voice. “Hi! How are you?”
Silence, then a deep sigh. I readied myself. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to take this call.
Words began pouring from her. “Ah, yeah,” she said nervously. “I hate to bother you with this, but Karen wrote and asked me if I would bag up all her things at her house and put them in a storage unit as soon as the police were done with their investigation and released her property. The landlord wants it out as soon as possible. The house is full of stuff. Clothes, toys, dishes, linens . . . it goes on and on. I’ll pay for one month of storage. That’s it. I don’t want anything to do with Karen after this. I’m only doing it for her kids. I understand you are the only one communicating with her.”
“Can you tell me where . . . ?” I tried to jump in.
“Make sure you tell her I will only pay for one month. I shouldn’t even be doing that, but there are things the kids might need. It’s up to someone else to get it out of storage.” She was polite, but firm. I had always thought she seemed like a good person with a kind heart. I sensed she cared about the Bower children, and I had heard she was trying to get guardianship over at least some of them since the news of Hannah. Karen had spoken in the past about how Renee tried to help her at times. I was sure Renee was struggling with the loss of Hannah. I was all too familiar with that struggle.
My mind raced with questions. What could Karen have been thinking? Who did she think would take her belongings? What would happen to them at the end of a month? I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Thank you for letting me know.” I wanted to show grace. “I will, uh, figure out what to do.”
Why did I say that? Why am I taking responsibility?
“Where is the storage unit?” I figured I had at least thirty days to work something out.
“It’s on the west side of town. I know someone with a pickup truck who will move everything out if you have a place for it to go. I will give you his name and number. After this, I want nothing to do with it.”
“Thank you for yo
ur call. That was kind of you.”
She gave no response.
Hanging up the phone, I felt frustrated. Why did I feel responsible?
Karen’s family can get it out of storage if they want it. If not, I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time someone left all their things and never came back for them. It’s not my property. It’s not my problem.
Grumbling made me more frustrated. I attempted a little self-counseling. Was I being put upon or was I taking on? I heard that voice again, prompting me to do this. The same one that said, “Would I take her call?” I wished that voice would choose someone else to speak to. I couldn’t imagine what good could come from my involvement.
A week later, through various people, I learned where all the children were living, scattered among friends and family. DFS, strangely enough, was not answering any calls. There was not even a recording or voice mail box to leave information. When I called, the phone just rang and rang.
About that same time, Karen wrote asking for another visit. She wasn’t allowed to call me from the Lusk women’s prison, where they had moved her. She was only allowed to write letters. This letter informed me that they were soon bringing her back to the local jail to meet with her attorneys and that she would call me when she could.
Her call came one evening. The next day, I decided to go to the jail after getting my kids home from school. Not wanting to traumatize them further by telling them who I was going to visit, yet feeling as if I was sneaking off on a secret mission, I told them I had to run to town to do an errand and then drove to the jail.
I signed in as a clergy visit with Jean. As I walked to the visitation entrance, pressure filled my chest. I stared at the door handle for a moment. Reaching for it seemed to take all my energy as I pulled the door toward me. It was a reminder of what little strength I truly had without God. Like an electrical shock, doom shot through my veins as the security door slammed shut behind me.