At the start of 2025 I realised that I had developed a fascination, in my 51 years as a journalist, for one subject perhaps above all others. It’s all about a word that starts with ‘F’. That word is forgiveness.
I have seen it play out in so many places around the world, and … well, it kind of intrigues me! Letting go of the pain of mistreatment, insult, serious injury, or even the murder of someone you love. It is a dilemma that has occupied humankind for the ages.
Easy phrases trip off the tongue … “forgive and forget” or, more commonly these days, “forgive them, but never forget what they did to you, lest you become a victim again.”
I vividly remember visiting a school in Kosovo at the turn of the century. A schoolboy stood in a crowd of other kids, singing with a passion I had never encountered in one so young. Kosovo had recently emerged from brutal persecution, murder, destruction, and people being driven from their homes by Serb paramilitaries.
With many now back home, this 10-year-old boy was singing a patriotic song at the top of his voice. When I asked what the words meant, an interpreter told me, “He’s singing that, when he grows up, he will avenge the blood of all his family going back to the Middle Ages.”
It made me think about ancient hatred and how easily the thin veneer of civilisation can crack – all over the world and down the centuries – revealing the tribalism which has claimed the lives of so many.
Aid and development workers in Kosovo at the time were cautiously trying to bring children of different ethnic backgrounds together to see if they could learn from an early age about building bridges. But one could tell it was going to be hard.
I’m still sure I know virtually nothing about the complex issues in places like the Balkans, and I should not attempt to begin to judge.
However, forgiveness and reconciliation are subjects which continue to intrigue me.
Recently, I’ve completed a book on courageous women. One chapter is called ‘Debbie Morris: Forgiving the Dead Man Walking.’
I interviewed Debbie in New Orleans in 2005. She was the real story behind the Dead Man Walking movie. At 16-years-old, she and her boyfriend were abducted by two men who raped and brutalised them.
It would later emerge when the men, Robert Lee Willie and Joseph Vaccaro, were arrested, that they’d been on a crime spree which had included the murder of an 18-year-old girl called Faith Hathaway.
Willie, subsequently on death row, sought spiritual counsel from a nun with a view to finding redemption and forgiveness before he was executed. Initially furious, Debbie Morris told me she realised, on the eve of the killer going to the electric chair, that she had an important decision to make …
She said, “So, I think that crucial night – when I knew that tomorrow morning I would wake up and Robert Lee Willie was going to be dead – I had to come to terms with what I would be like on the first day of the rest of my life.
“I hoped that there would be this healing … this change … that I would be different. But I sort of panicked.”
She wondered, “What if this execution doesn’t make me feel better?”
“I finally realised that, as brutal as this man had been, there needed to be a different kind of healing in my life. I realised it wasn’t just about what happened to Willie – that it was something bigger and more powerful than that – something which needed to change for me.
“At the roots of my faith, for the first time in about five years, I knew that it was wrong to hate Robert Lee Willie – I knew that it was wrong no matter what he had done, and I didn’t want him to die with me hating him.
“Somehow, I guess I knew that tomorrow morning wouldn’t look any different if I still hated him, and the only way that I knew how to stop hating him was to ask God to help me to forgive.”
Now, Debbie is a sought-after speaker on the subject of forgiveness.
I cannot pretend I understand what it would take to do what Debbie did. Many who hear her story struggle with its implications.
I’ve written before about meeting a woman called Jan Wallis, whom I accompanied into a prison to watch as she reached out a hand of reconciliation to the man who had driven drunk and caused a crash, killing Jan’s daughter Rochelle.
The convicted man, Raymond Hansen, was rendered speechless by Jan’s declaration of forgiveness to him – a guy serving a nine-year jail term for causing the death of Rochelle and two of her friends.
There were others at that restorative justice meeting in Whanganui Prison, including some of Raymond’s relatives.
The silence that followed Jan’s offer of forgiveness was eventually broken by Raymond’s sister-in-law, Lisa, who asked if she could say something.
I’d been aware that the unfolding scene in this conference room was proving very emotional for the young woman. She’d been alternating between sobbing and nodding all the way through Jan’s sharing of her soul-touching journey.
Lisa told her own story of loss and anger.
One year before Raymond’s fateful drive, Lisa had lost her 12-year-old son in an accident on a Taranaki farm. He’d been riding a farm bike, had lost control and been killed.
“He was on a farm in the care of other people,” Lisa began. “When I heard how Rochelle had died, my heart went out to you guys because I knew what you were going through.”
Tugging at a tissue, trying to keep her composure, Lisa went on.
“In my case, I was so angry with those people who were supposed to be keeping an eye on my son. I didn’t want to become bitter, but I did. And I started hating them, hating myself for my decisions, and it started eating me up.”
Tears flowed freely now, but bringing some relief. Lisa addressed Jan.
“I heard what you wanted to do – to come here and meet Raymond – and I knew in my heart that you were coming here to forgive him. It had a huge impact on me, and I thought to myself, if Jan can even think of doing that to a drunk driver, you know, I have to be able to do this too.
“It was prodding me along – it wouldn’t leave me alone. I didn’t have as much guts as you’ve got, so I couldn’t face those people.
“I put it off and put it off, and one night, there was a clear voice in my head: ‘You get up now and write that letter.’ And finally, I did! I let them go. I forgave.”
Lisa concluded – looking at Jan: “So already you’ve changed someone’s life by the choices you’ve made in this situation. You’ve changed mine – you’ve changed the people I chained up because of my unforgiveness. And I feel honoured to come and meet you.”
But in reality, many know that the pain of loss and separation of a life taken away in a cruel manner, is not always so easily scrubbed away.
When I finally assembled the video footage I had collected over nearly six years on Raymond and Jan’s story, it was inevitable I would end up speaking with the mums of the two young men who had also been killed that night when Hansen smashed into their van.
Angela, the mother of one of the boys, vowed she would never forgive Raymond Hansen.
“When I found out he was a repeat offender, I hoped he’d get a life for a life. Lock him up and throw away the key.
Of Jan’s forgiveness, Angela observed:
“I couldn’t do what she’s done. In some ways, I think, ‘good on her,’ but then I think it doesn’t seem right under the circumstances. How can she feel good about someone killing her child? I sure as hell don’t feel good about him killing mine.
“I’ll never forgive him. Never, ever. Those kids, you know – they meant too much.”
[I need to add at this stage that Raymond was released part way through his sentence and then recalled to prison, which made some victims even angrier].
So, wouldn’t we agree forgiveness in such a case would seem – to many – near impossible?
Pondering my time telling this story, I tried to put myself in the shoes of everyone involved in this saga. I concluded there was no room for ‘imperatives’. You can’t force, manipulate or ‘guilt-trip’ people into forgiving someone who has hurt them.
It’s just not that simple. For some people, wounds heal to some extent – and they find the faith or inner inclination to forgive and reconcile. For others, the wounds remain unbelievably raw and feel unhealable. Timing, sometimes, is everything.
As with all the paths we walk with our fellow humans, a gentle, non-judgemental – often silent – companionship with those who are hurt can be the most compassionate approach.
I love this quote: “Don’t try to fix me. Don’t carry my burden or chase away my shadows. Instead, be the steady hand I can hold as I navigate my inner landscape. Hold my hand until dawn breaks, and I find my strength again.”
Then, when that love and support has been offered, as Mark Twain observed, there may come a point – even if it takes a very long journey – where “Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.”
In my long quest to understand forgiveness, one man I met taught me probably the most important lesson. It’s about identifying with the offender, walking a mile in their shoes …
I went to Oklahoma City about 18 years ago to interview Bud Welch. His daughter Julie was killed when Timothy McVeigh blew up the Federal Building and killed nearly 170 people, including children in a daycare centre, in 1995.
Bud had collapsed emotionally, turned to alcohol for relief, and was filled with a desire for retribution. One day, he was watching a TV item in which a reporter had cornered Timothy McVeigh’s father, Bill, at home in his garden.
Bud watched closely and recalled, “On Bill McVeigh’s final answer he stood up and looked directly into the lens of the television camera for just a couple of seconds.
“And when he did, I could see this large man physically stooped in grief.
“He had a deep pain in his eyes that I recognised immediately – because I was living that same pain! And, despite my emotions toward his son at that time, I knew that someday I needed to tell that man that I truly cared how he felt and did not blame him or his family for what his son had done.”
Bud had had a mind-boggling personal epiphany.
He drove all the way to upstate New York to meet with Bill and Timothy McVeigh’s sister, Jennifer, in an emotionally-charged encounter.
Bud says: “We finished talking, and Jennifer grabbed me around the neck and started hugging me. We both started crying, and then that escalated to sobbing – which I had not experienced as an adult.
“Finally, I held her face in my hands and said, ‘Look honey, the three of us are in this for the rest of our lives. We can make the most of this if we choose. I don’t want your brother to die, and I’ll do everything that I can to prevent it.’”
Bud became an anti-death penalty campaigner. He even started something called ‘The Forgiveness Project.’
McVeigh was put to death, but Bud entered a whole new phase of life – still dreadfully distraught about losing Julie, but hugely aware of the power of walking in the shoes of another.
I truly believe this may be a key to forgiveness and reconciliation.
But in the end, there are other stories too – which have taken my breath away.
I forget who told me about Keith Stewart of Johnsonville, but I really wanted to interview him for a TV series I was making, about spiritual concepts.
Keith and Rangi Stewart ran a little store in a northern Wellington suburb in the 1970s. The store was only marginally legal, because of its location on Keith’s front lawn, but it was a magnet for locals.
On Guy Fawkes Night in November 1977, Keith and Rangi’s six-year-old daughter Lynley disappeared. As the evening closed in, scores of local residents, students, and police mounted a massive search for the little girl.
Eventually – a gut-wrenching discovery! Lynley’s body was found underneath a school classroom just across from the Stewart’s store. She had been sexually assaulted and murdered. The community went numb, wondering who in their midst could have done this awful thing.
The outcome of the police investigation was equally tragic. The perpetrator had been a 14-year-old boy who lived just a few houses away from the Stewarts. He was taken into custody, and because of his age, he was shipped off to a boys’ home, where he was to spend the next few years.
Years later, I discovered that I knew this kid’s dad – he was a fellow journalist. Keith – a man of deep conviction and faith – found the inner resources to go around and visit that little girl’s father.
Keith told me in an interview, “I just felt compelled to go – I knew his heart would be breaking over his son, like mine was for Lynley. When I was let into the house, this father was collapsed on his bed.” Keith reckoned he looked like he was “about to die.”
The dad’s reaction to Keith coming to see him was profound: “I fully expected Keith to turn up with an axe wanting to kill me and my family”, he told me later. “But there was this unexpected love and compassion in his eyes …”
In what a witness to the scene said was the most moving thing he’d ever seen, Keith extended his hand to the offender’s father and offered unconditional forgiveness.
My reaction on hearing this story was (as I said at the outset) one of delight and yet a dilemma. At the time I was interviewing Keith, my own daughter was the same age Lynley had been when she died. Could I have performed an act of reconciliation like that? I just didn’t know …
Twenty years after Lynley’s death, we were there filming at her graveside as Keith and his family wondered what she would have looked like aged 26. The feelings ran deep that day, but Keith displayed a composure that was disarming.
There was even more to the story. The young man who’d taken Lynley’s life did some hard time in a juvenile home. He – and obviously his family – were forever scarred by what had happened. The community, too, remained divided for years. Inevitably, many wanted a harsher, longer sentence for the boy, even though he was young.
It transpired that many years later, the perpetrator, who had gotten his life together, had heard Keith telling his story on a radio programme, and had called the show to talk with the dad whose daughter he had killed.
A meeting was arranged. As Keith had done with this young man’s father, there was a handshake, a hug, an offer of forgiveness, and a strong bond was formed between offender and victim.
Keith’s story was picked up, turned into several other languages, and sent around the world.
Some years went by. Stories about the ripples of Keith’s forgiveness went far and wide. I heard a couple more that blew my mind. One only recently from a mate of mine, who, as a motorcyclist, had hit Keith’s car, and was unreservedly pardoned by this guy who refused to make him pay.
I was told that Keith was dying a few years back, and he wanted to chat with me. I rang him … his voice sounded very weak.
“Hey Rob,” he said, “Thanks for telling mine and Lynley’s story, mate. But I have a question for you.”
“Fire away, Keith,” I replied.
“I haven’t been perfect,” he said. “But do you reckon with all that’s happened over the years, I’ve done enough to make it into heaven?”
What a question.
“Mate,” I told him. “There’ll be a guard of honour at the pearly gates.”
I could hear the smile in his voice as he thanked me. Keith passed away 24 hours later.
The raw power of a forgiving heart.
When writing on the subject of offering forgiveness, it is almost inevitable that one thread will emerge quite strongly at some point: the issue of SELF-forgiveness.
In its own way, this can be as challenging as reconciling with someone who has hurt you. From talking to therapists and counsellors, I find they’ll often stress the importance of releasing YOURSELF from past failures or hurts, which cause you to hang on to shame and guilt.
This is, for many, a big hill to climb.
There’s an epic scene in the movie ‘Good Will Hunting’ where Robin Williams reaches a critical point in his counselling relationship with Matt Damon … and he presses in and says over and over again – a total of nine times – “It’s not your fault!” as he tackles the younger man’s trauma.
Some people, it seems to me, need to hear that a lot – many times, in fact – before they realise that ongoing self-blame and recrimination needs to cease – especially in cases where they feel they bear some of the responsibility for things like past abuse done to them.
I was once interviewing a paediatric intensive care specialist about parents who abuse their kids, and one comment was intriguing. This doctor said she often felt nothing but compassion for those offending mums and dads, because many had never been taught how to care for their children properly. The result was intergenerational abuse and harm.
My impression is that must happen a lot. Life-skills are at an all-time low in many places in our society. And it’s becoming increasingly clear that for those who hurt their kids or others to NOT repeat or perpetuate the cycle, these people are going to need to heal substantially on the inside before they can go forward.
If dysfunction, its consequences and remorse, never get addressed, people will continue to make train-wrecks of their lives – unless ways are found to teach the lost and hurting to reconcile with their own upbringing and failures.
Nowadays, part of my everyday life revolves around walking with the ‘wounded soldiers’ I seem to meet. Because somehow, I’ve earned the reputation of being someone who has maybe looked behind the curtain and seen some reality and hope.
Many of those I cross paths with are afflicted by regret, damage, and self-recrimination. That junk doesn’t just go away after one cup of coffee, a reassuring chat and a hug. Sometimes, it requires a long-haul relationship, with part of the goal being to help them with self-forgiveness.
Whitney Houston told us so lyrically that, “The greatest love of all is easy to achieve. Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all.”
That rings true for me after a rugged decade. Loving that man, boy, woman, or girl in the mirror builds a platform of hope, which in turn enables loving of others in healthy, growing relationships. It can save marriages, families, and friendships that might otherwise disintegrate.
Wholeness flows from knowing we are worthy. And from that wholeness, imparting love and forgiveness to others becomes so much more possible.
FIND OUT MORE ABOUT ROB’S EXPLOITS AT ‘THE SOUTH HEAD VAGABOND’ ROBHARLEY.CO.NZ
