A Baby Girl and the Meaning of Forgiveness

Thirty nine years ago last month, a baby was kidnapped from her home on her first birthday.

The parent's of that little one had tried to have children, but couldn't.

Finally, they were able to adopt this little girl when she was three months old.

She was the first child of these parents.

She was the first grandchild of my parents.

She was the first niece of mine.

I was twelve when she came into the family.

I was thirteen when she was kidnapped.

The man walked right past the end of my sister and brother-in-law's bed to get to her.

They never woke up. They would always wake up when she even scratched her fingernails on the sheet of her crib. The only explanation for them not waking up was that God chose to keep them asleep. It was found out later that he had a gun and a knife and planned to kill them if they woke up.

"Happy Birthday, Punkie" my sister said, as she walked into her room.

But there was no "Punkie" ( short for pumpkin).

She tried to call the police, but the phone lines had been cut.

She tried to drive, but the wires were pulled on the car.

She ran to her neighbors.

All points bulletin was futile.

She was gone.

Anguish.

The first time I saw my dad cry was then.

We tried to carry on.

Day after day.

Week after week.

Month after month.

Five months later, a tip.

The FBI had found her, but because of her condition, had decided not to tell us that they had.

Really? Like her condition would have made us love her any less?

He had abused her. Threw a milk jug at her head. She was in Arizona. She was in a coma.

The man was stopped as he was driving to the desert to dispose of her.

When my sister and brother-in-law heard, they raced down there.

When my brother-in-law walked in and said, "Hi, Punkie", she sighed and closed her eyes for the first time.

She came out of her coma on Christmas.

She could smile. She could coo, but she never walked or talked. She never developed past the mental age of about four months.

The summer of my seventeenth year, I took care of her because my sister had to help on her farm. I was so proud, because that was the first time she cooed.

She lived until she was thirteen. She died at the same age that I was when she was taken from us.

We loved our little Laurilee.

So many years ago and yet still, I cry.

She blessed us.

I have been asked on many occasions how I can so easily forgive people.

Why do I love women who had affairs with my husband?

Why do I hug them and tell them they are beautiful?

How did I forgive my ex-husband for the pain and devastation that I saw in my children?

Why do I hold no ill will toward the man driving the semi-truck who crashed into us and caused a downward spiral in my health that makes me daily fight for life?

The reason is because of Laurilee, my mom and my sister Joyce.

There are many people in this world who know they should forgive.

God forgives us. We should forgive others, but it seems so hard.

One day, when I was thirteen, I was walking down the sidewalk with my mom.

I said, "Mom, do you want that man to die? (the man who kidnapped Laurilee)

She said, "No, I want him to know God and go to heaven. I hate the sin, but I love the sinner."

Another day, I watched the news. I saw my sister being interviewed. They asked, "Do you want that man to die?" She said, "No, I want him to know God and go to heaven. I hate the sin, but I love the sinner."

Impactful to a thirteen year old.

Impactful to all who looked on.

I was blessed to have experienced that time of life, because it made it so easy for me to live a life of forgiveness.

I watch people. I hurt for the people who have such a hard time with forgiveness. I long for them to see that unforgiveness and bitterness yields turmoil, but forgiveness yields peace.

May God grant all of you the ability to release the things you hold onto.

Our little Laurilee plays in heaven now, free of all that held her back on earth.