It was 2 a.m. by the time I arrived home from the airport. The letter was waiting for me. The return address told me I should wait until morning to open it, but curiosity ignored my instincts. Reading it, anger rose in my stomach and my heart began to race.
I knew one day the letter would arrive. Still, it caught me unprepared, as did the date it was written. How ironic that on a date my brother Michael came into the world, I was sent a letter from the Oregon Board of Parole telling me that the man who took him out of this world faced the possibility of independence on July 4, four years shy of his 33-year sentence.
“He doesn’t deserve to be released,” I said to myself. “He deserves to rot in prison. Why should he get the chance to be free when Michael isn’t?”
Those questions and thoughts hung over me, tell-tale signs that my anger toward my brother’s assailant, long thought buried, was still alive. Worse yet was the awareness that I had never forgiven him, nor did I think I ever could.
Everything about the way I have lived my life and my relationship with Jesus told me I should forgive this man. Everything about my love for my brother and the years of my life without him told me I couldn’t.
St. Ignatius of Loyola suggests we engage in a “colloquy,” an intimate conversation between ourselves, God, Jesus or Mary. We speak from the heart as one friend to another ending in silence to listen for a response. Over the next several weeks, I spoke to Jesus, pouring out all the reasons why I couldn’t forgive this man. One night, Jesus wrote on my heart, “You don’t know the whole of this man’s story, Mary-Jo.”
“No, I don’t,” I replied. I know his prisoner identification number, his height, weight, age, race, hair, eye color and, most important, what he did to my brother on Oct. 31, 1994.
I didn’t know his story, but I did know my brother’s — his gentleness, his quirky antics and the sound of his laughter. I knew he was a self-taught and skilled guitarist, how he loved his family and how childhood demons haunted his life.
As I sat with Jesus in prayer, I knew He wasn’t there to change my mind or tell me what to do. He was there to walk with me through these complex feelings and assure me that I wasn’t alone. “Whatever you decide,” He told me, “I will love you.”
Jesus would love me no matter what, but I also knew in the depths of my heart that He was calling me to something more — something I couldn’t give on my own. At the recommendation of my spiritual director, I began praying for the grace to forgive.
It seemed that grace would elude me. Every night, I imagined two chairs in front of me, Jesus sitting in one and my brother’s murderer in the other. To one, I voiced all the things he took away from me and my family. To Jesus, I said, “Take this away from me.”
The Holy Spirit again prompted me to look at this man’s story, to imagine the twists and turns his life took that led him to my brother’s house that October night. I didn’t want to know his story because, deep down, I was afraid that if I did know it, I would feel mercy and compassion for him. To feel that would be to betray my brother, Michael.
That’s when Jesus reminded me of something Michael revealed to me in prayer a few weeks before when I asked my brother what I should do. “I am at peace, Jo, here with Mom and Dad. You should be at peace, too.” He was still my big brother looking out for me, showing me the way.
In the end, it was Mary, my Mother of Sorrows and my companion on my grief journey, who led me to the place where Jesus wanted me to be. While praying, I asked Mary how she found the freedom to forgive those who killed her son. What I heard her say was that it was Jesus’ own words from the cross, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”
Mary revealed to me that hearing those words Jesus spoke as He writhed in pain, helped her realize she could do nothing less. Jesus wanted her to forgive so that she could be free from anger and resentment. “That’s what Jesus wants for you, Mary-Jo,” she whispered on my heart. “Release yourself from any power this man has over you to bind you to an unforgiving heart.”
Mary’s plea burned in my heart. With her beside me, I found the courage to speak the words I had so long kept buried, and, saying the man’s name aloud, I told him I forgave him for killing my brother. Then I did something that completely surprised me: I asked God to help this man make something of the remaining years of his life in atonement for taking Michael’s.
I closed my eyes and, as the quiet stillness of peace washed over me, I heard my loving and gentle God say, “You are My beloved child in whom I am well pleased.” Through tear-stained eyes, I responded, “Thank You, Lord, for healing my heart. Thank You for making me worthy of such a great love as Yours.”
By Mary-Jo McLaughlin