I didn't want to make some insignificant blog entry about the despicable, wretched act of Charles Carl Roberts, the shit head who decided to stop his truck outside an Amish schoolhouse and shoot ten girls before taking the coward's way out and killing himself. I just didn't want to talk about it. Whenever I thought about what he did I felt myself tightening up with anger. I'm sure that any parent has at one time or other imagined the unimaginable fear. Just imagining a tragedy like that can awaken the instinct to protect and secure and defend. It furrows the brow and whitens the knuckles and makes the eyes glassy. Thinking about that awful news story made me wonder what I'd do if anyone ever hurt, or even tried to hurt, my daughter.

I don't think I could peacefully contain that much rage. In my entire life I've never been involved in so much as a fist fight. There has never a need. I've never been wronged to a degree that would warrant violence, and I've never given anyone reason to instigate violence against me. But if it was my daughter in that school...I have to admit that it's possible that I'd do something that I would never have thought myself capable of; I think I'd tear him apart. I think they'd need his dental records for positive ID.

Maybe not. But that's how I feel when I think about such a thing. And I hadn't thought about such a thing until this asshole blighted the world with his insanity.

And then today I read something that stopped me cold. It stopped me so cold I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. I read about how one of the community's elders said to his younger relatives, "We must not think evil of this man."

"We must not think evil of this man."

I read those eight words and a cry forced itself out of me—eight words made me feel so small. They're words from a man bigger than me, better than me in a way that I can barely grasp.

I'm agnostic. I don't believe any of us have it 100% right. I don't like what dogmatic beliefs do to most people. But I've never been so moved by a statement of pure faith in my life. No words or act of religious integrity has ever penetrated or impressed me quite like this. This is a faith that must be respected. There's so much faith-driven hate in the world right now, so much ignorance. But what does this man do, while his granddaughter's lifeless body was still being tended to? He takes the opportunity to heal his family on a level that revenge can't, he takes the opportunity to remain true to himself and his community and his faith, despite the agonizing pain in his chest, to teach his younger generation a vital lesson in what they hold most dear.

I hope the media does the right thing and DRILLS THIS MAN'S WORDS INTO THE WORLD'S EARS. Repeat it over and over again. Play it enough times to make sure nobody on Earth missed it flipping through the channels.

We don't often get to hear wonders like this. We see so much filth and badness and meanness and ugliness every day on the news—they make it a window on the dark side of humanity. But it doesn't have to be. The concept of forgiveness is so utterly absent in most of the world...Some might call it weakness, or turning the other cheek. It's not weakness, it's strength, just a foreign kind. The idea of forgiving the killer of your child seems absurd, impossible. I don't think I'd have it in me. But it's the kind of principle that makes a society, a culture, endure. The Amish reaction to this tragedy should be presented as a lesson for the whole world, especially now with new forms of insanity presenting themselves almost daily.

It makes me want to drive the four hours to their community, shake his hand, leave them flowers, plant ten trees, and ask if they might be willing to tolerate my presence for a while as I watch in awe as they go about their lives.

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