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Dear
Bob,
You
have permission to reprint this piece in Starfish, as long
as you include the credit line at the bottom with a working
link to our website, www.griefcompanion.org. Please let me
know if you use it, or if you are interested in other
stories like this one.
Sincerely,
Sam
Hine
shine@bruderhof.com
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When my only daughter, Julie, was killed, I joined a "club"
that I wish had no members. The price of admission is too
high. I know the pain of losing a loved one because of a
senseless act of violence.
Julie Marie was the light of my life. She was so bright, so
kind, and so caring. She was my friend and confidante. After
graduating from college, Julie worked as a Spanish
interpreter for the Social Security Administration in
Oklahoma City. Every Wednesday, we met for lunch at a Greek
restaurant across the street from the Murrah Federal
Building. Our lunch date on Wednesday, April 19, 1995 was
never to be.
Julie spoke five languages and used her abilities to help
disadvantaged people. On the morning of the bombing, she had
gone into the lobby to meet her clients. Julie always did
things like that. If she had stayed in her office instead of
meeting the clients in the lobby, she would have survived.
I'm
the third oldest of eight children, raised on a dairy farm
in central Oklahoma. I've run a gasoline service station for
35 years. All my life, I had always opposed the death
penalty. I had often been told over a cup of coffee with
friends who supported the death penalty that if something
ever happened to one of my family members, I would change my
mind--"What if Julie was raped and murdered?"
When
Julie was killed that morning with 167 others in the bomb
blast at the Murrah Building, the pain I felt was
unbearable. I was also filled with rage. I wanted Timothy
McVeigh executed. I could have done it with my bare hands. I
didn't even want a trial. I just wanted him fried. I call it
the "insanity period"--I went through five weeks of
insanity. Now I know why people accused of committing
horrible crimes are rushed from the car to the courthouse
wearing bulletproof vests--because victims' family members
are so crazed and angry that they would take the law into
their own hands.
I
remembered President Clinton and Attorney General Janet
Reno, while Julie's body was still missing, saying that they
were going to seek and obtain the death penalty for the
perpetrators. That sounded so wonderful to me at the time,
because I had been crushed, and that was the big fix.
But
I also remembered the time Julie and I were driving across
Iowa during her junior year of college, listening to a
newscast on the radio about an execution. Julie said, "Dad,
what they're doing in Texas makes me sick. All they're doing
is teaching hate to their children. It has no social
redeeming value." I didn't think much about it at the time,
but after Julie was killed, it kept echoing in my mind.
Nine
months after the bombing, I was still stuck on April 19. I
was drinking heavily and smoking three packs of cigarettes a
day. One cold January day, I went down to the bomb site. I
sat under the old elm tree where Julie used to park her car.
I asked myself, "Once they're tried and executed, what then?
How's that going to help me? It isn't going to bring Julie
back." I asked myself that question for two weeks. I finally
realized that the death penalty was nothing more than
revenge and hate. And revenge and hate are exactly why Julie
and 167 others are dead.
A
few weeks after the bombing I saw Bill McVeigh, Tim's
father, on television. He was working in his flowerbed. The
reporter asked him a question, and when he looked into the
television camera for a few seconds, I saw a deep pain in a
father's eyes that most people could not have recognized. I
could, because I was living that pain. And I knew that some
day I had to go tell that man that I truly cared about how
he felt.
One
Saturday morning two years later, I finally found myself in
Bill McVeigh's driveway. I sat in the car, not knowing what
I was going to be able to say. Then I went up and knocked.
He came to the door, and I introduced myself. I said, "I
understand that you have a large garden in your backyard,"
and that excited him. He said, "Oh, yeah, would you like to
see it?" I said, "I'd love to."
So,
we spent the first half-hour in that garden getting to know
one another. Then we went into the house, and spent an hour
visiting at the kitchen table. His 23-year-old daughter
Jennifer was there. As I walked in I noticed a photograph of
Tim above the mantelpiece. I kept looking at it as we were
sitting at the table. I knew that I had to comment on it at
some point, so finally I looked at it and said, "God, what a
good-looking kid." Bill said, "That's Tim high school
graduation picture." A big tear rolled out of his right eye,
and at that moment I saw in a father's eyes a love for his
son that was absolutely incredible.
After our visit I got up, and Jennifer came from the other
end of the table and gave me a hug; we cried, and I held her
face in my hands and told her, "Honey, the three of us are
in this for the rest of our lives. And we can make the most
of it if we choose. I don't want your brother to die. And I
will do everything in my power to prevent it."
Driving back to Buffalo, I couldn't see through my glasses
because I was still sobbing. When I got back I sat and
sobbed and sobbed, and made a total ass out of myself for an
hour. But I have never felt closer to God in my life than I
did at that moment. It felt like a load had been taken
completely off my shoulders. I wish I could make you
understand the way it felt.
All
of my family members opposed Tim McVeigh being executed. The
last one to come aboard was my mother, who was 88. Mom was
very angry at me for speaking out against the death penalty
for Tim McVeigh, because she wanted him dead. Finally, she
called me on the phone one day. She said, "Well, Bud, I hope
it goes well for you. You're right about the death penalty.
I guess I have enough of my anger gone now that I can
believe that we shouldn't kill him."
I
was speaking in Seattle recently. A lady told me she had
always supported the death penalty. Her husband had been
murdered in 1981, in Florida, and the murderer had killed
other people, too. She had supported the death penalty right
up until the execution of her husband's killer. Then, a week
after the execution, she started to get this creepy feeling.
This
woman told me that when the murderer was alive, she could
take her rage out on him. But once he was dead, she had
nowhere to release the rage. The prosecutor never told her
that she might go through this mental and emotional crisis
once the guy was executed. She told me that if she knew then
what she knows now, she would have done everything she could
to stop that execution. I have heard that many times. So the
death penalty can actually prevent healing, rather than
helping.
The
day after Julie's burial someone asked me about "closure." I
can't stand that word. Of course I was still in hell then.
In a way, I still am. How can there ever be true closure? A
part of my heart is gone. Julie's death still grips me every
single day. But I no longer carry that horrible vengeance
and rage because it would destroy me.
Of
course, forgiving is not something you wake up one morning
and decide to do. I still have these moments of rage, when I
think, "What am I doing? That bastard didn't deserve to
live."
You
have to work thorough your anger and hatred as long as it's
there. You try to live each day a little better than the one
before.
There's been enough bloodshed. We don't need any more. To me
the death penalty is vengeance, and vengeance doesn't really
help anyone in the healing process. Of course, our first
reaction is to strike back. But if we permit ourselves to
think through our feelings, we might get to a different
place.
[Bud
Welch runs a service station in Oklahoma City, and travels
around the country speaking about his daughter and the death
penalty. He is on the Board of Directors of Murder Victims
Families for Reconciliation.
Reprinted from the Bruderhof Grief Companion - [Used with
permission.]
http://www.griefcompanion.org
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May your day be blessed
Bob Johnston |
