The parents of a murderer are pressed hard against the wall. They remember when he was a baby; purely innocent and full of potential. But now, like he, they must face the fact of the things he has done. If he is sentenced to life in prison, they have to wrestle with the understanding that he will never come home again.
With the purest possible love, and the greatest possible regret, they remember him when he lay so sweetly in their arms. But mistakes, the influence of outside forces, and the choices of the man, have ripped potential from their dreams. Who can voice a sadness like that? Tell me that loss isn’t personal.
Tell me they don’t think of how much better it might have been if their sweet baby had been stillborn. Better for the victim’s family. Better for the society that was robbed of precious potential. Better that a prison cell should house anyone else, and that for lesser crimes. . . PLEASE! Better for the sounds that the walls of their house remember. Better for their aching hearts that cannot find healing.
They cannot love their child to the potential they once desired, for once a deed like that is done it cannot be erased.
But you will not rip away what love remains, from their hearts. For they will seek with great diligence to find the shreds of their baby that remain in their son.
Love is not passive.
Love is not blind.
Love is married to wisdom.
Pure love understands what is pure.
Love makes way for reality.
Love may experience restriction.
Love may be forsaken!
But it is impossible for love to die.