BibleSexy.com Going to Hell with Gasoline Drawers!

In a gathering of thirty or so people who meet for a common purpose, I was approached by a man who asked me if I was a police officer. I was not surprised at this because it is well known in my circle that I am a police lieutenant in a city of four hundred thousand-plus people. The man appeared to be somewhat unbalanced but not unkind. He spoke slowly and with a slight speech impediment as if he were ‘slow’ or heavily medicated. Expecting to get the usual request to run a license plate or fix a ticket or offer legal advice, I hesitantly stated that I was.

The man looked suddenly troubled and asked if he could have a private moment with me. I obliged and what happened next was profound for me and, I hope, for him. The fellow introduced himself as Miguel and this is what he said:

“I used to use cocaine and other drugs and they messed up my mind. I became paranoid and I was always afraid. One day, I did a very bad thing. I was driving on (location not divulged to protect Miguel) and a state trooper told me to pull over. I was afraid and I didn’t pull over. I know I shouldn’t have, but I tried to get away. I was very scared. There was another trooper and I didn’t see him and I ran him over with my car.”

Seeing that I didn’t react immediately, Miguel Went on:

“The trooper died. I killed him. They found me incompetent to stand trial and sent me to a state mental institution (for the criminally insane). I was there for about ten years before they started letting me out and then they let me out for good. I’m better now but I have to go once a week for a shot of Haldol.”

As Miguel told his story, I remembered a dark night in 1993 when I had shot a man in the line of duty. I was a young officer then and the man’s name was Bobby Fisher. He had been running from other police units after stealing a car. I joined the chase and by happenstance, my partner and I became the lead unit. At one point, Fisher slowed down and a passenger jumped from the moving car. I stopped briefly and my partner jumped out and gave foot chase to the man. Fisher then sped up again and I pursued him alone.

Fisher turned the large sedan into a into a blind courtyard next to a school, crashing into a fence. I stopped my car short of his and as his door opened I hurried out of my patrol car anticipating a foot chase. Then the inexplicable happened. Fisher closed his door and slammed the transmission into reverse. He turned and then sped forward toward the only exit to the narrow courtyard which was blocked by my body alone. I back peddled as he came at me and found that I was on the wrong side of my car door and wouldn’t have time to get around the open door to safety. Looking left I saw an eight-foot cement wall. With nowhere to run, I pulled my gun and pointed at Fisher who’s face was miraculously illuminated by the timely arrival of the spotlight from our chopper overhead. Although I fired three times, the first bullet was the truest and found it’s way through the windshield, hitting Fisher in the forehead. Fisher fell in the seat pulling the steering wheel with him. The auto turned and missed me by inches as it passed.

All of the feelings from that event suddenly flowed into me now, as if I were there again. I felt the fear that I was going to die and the panic over having just shot someone. And just as I wondered why Miguel was confessing his story to me now, he continued:

“I want to tell you because you are a policeman too. I want to tell you I’m sorry for killing him. I’m sorry for killing your brother policeman.”

As Miguel said those last words, his grief passed into me and I felt such great sadness that I could hardly remain standing under the weight of it. I walk with a cane these days; the result of nearly twenty years of police action. I leaned heavily on that cane now. I knew Miguel was sincere and that he had paid dearly and daily for his transgression. I suddenly desired to be forgiven by God for all that I had done since I turned, knowingly, from his sight.

You see… Bobby fisher did not die when I shot him. Shortly before his sentencing, he wrote me a letter apologizing for his actions against me and asking for my forgiveness. He also said in the letter that he forgave me for shooting him in the head. He spoke of finding god in jail. I used his words in that letter to manipulate the court into giving Fisher a harsher sentence. There was no forgiveness in my heart and I felt, at that time, as if it wouldn’t have mattered he had died. It would have made my story better for the telling.

Feeling Miguel’s grief at having accidentally killed a man woke me up to the implications of how I might have felt if Fisher had died; a man that I had intentionally shot. I wonder now if I could have been so cavalier as I had imagine myself being. I wonder also who was hurt more by my lack of forgiveness of Bobby Fisher. I believe, these many years later, that it was me. Since that time, my heart has only grown harder and more distant from the reach of God and his love. I stopped believing in God shortly after that and I lost any connection to the spiritual gifts of divine love and forgiveness. I thought you had to pay for what you did and that in the end all debts were settled by death. There was nothing after.

As we stood there, two men crying… I hugged Miguel tightly and told him the only words that I knew could ease his emotional pain as well as my own. I said: “I forgive you”.