I Commited Murder Today

*This story contains brief mentions of physical violence*

“There will be a time when we must choose between what is easy and what is right.”

-Albus Dumbledore

It’s so easy to hate someone.

People say “hate” is a strong word, but it’s not, really. It’s a too-often used word, sure, but only because it’s a too-often done thing. We’re quick to anger, and anger quickly turns into hatred, and by then it’s just a downward spiral into a pit few know how to climb out of. And by then, it’s normalized. It’s okay. We convince ourselves that it’s okay. We’ve all done it. I did.

I was busy convincing myself that I was perfectly allowed to hate Dean Lloyd’s guts when I walked out the front doors of my highschool on a bitter January afternoon. I tried to ignore people’s stares and made a beeline towards my car. I could still feel them, though, and it only made me angrier. This is all his fault, I thought. The stares, the whispers, the gossip. Not just for me, either. When Jamie came back to school, which part of me feared he never would, it would be worse for him. So much worse. And Dean Lloyd was to blame. Everyone knew it, but only I seemed to care enough to loathe him more than I even thought it was possible to loathe somebody. 

As I got into the driver’s seat I thought with grim pleasure: I want him dead. It took me off guard. I had never wanted anyone to die before. It made me feel less helpless, though. Less powerless. 

And I felt so powerless, because, despite the fact that the whole school seemed to know that it had been Dean and his buddies who had beat up Jamie, the teachers and all other useless authorities were still scratching their heads and wondering who could have done it. They didn’t do anything, and Dean was still walking down the halls of my school with that smug grin. I wanted to make him hurt enough to wipe it off his face.

My bible was sitting in the passenger seat of the car, where it always was. Reading it this morning felt like ages ago. Now it was just a useless book, not my most prized possession. My God, who I thought was a protector, hadn’t protected my best friend. And God, who said he was just, hadn’t brought justice on Dean Lloyd. The bible seemed like a book of lies. I threw it in the back seat and ignored the pang of guilt I instantly felt.

It was easier to block out that voice in my head that told me that God would be disappointed, that I had hurt him, as I drove home. It was driven out by the buzz of vengeance in my head. Fantasies of getting back at Dean. I had been angry at people before, but I had always known when to stop the thoughts, when to just forgive and forget. I had known when to ask God for help. But now my God was in the backseat and I just let the insults and images come. Every time I felt guilt or shame, the picture of Jamie’s bruised and bloodied face popped into my head, and those feelings were washed away. 

At home my mom saw my stormy gaze and knew immediately something was wrong. Moms always do. “Jamie got beat up at school for telling on Dean Lloyd.” I said before she could even ask. Everything she needed to know: My friend had done the right thing, and this was what he got for it. And it was Dean’s fault. Mom uttered a little gasp of dismay and didn’t move to stop me as I ran down the stairs. I shut myself in my room. 

It was all so stupid. Schools were supposed to be safe. Good people were supposed to be safe. Christians were supposed to be safe. But we weren’t. Not even from kids our own age. It was like everyone in my life had lied to me, and I had been an idiot to not figure it out before. 

I lay in bed to stew in my hatred. After maybe an hour my mom came down and knocked on the door. “You forgot this in your car,” she said tentatively, holding out my bible.

“I don’t want it.” I said.

She paused, uncertain. “I know it’s hard to forgive sometimes–”

“Some people don’t deserve to be forgiven.” I cut in.

Mom flinched. There was an even longer pause and I thought that maybe she was simply going to leave. I wanted her to. But then she said, “I know.” That was even better, because maybe she actually understood. But then she continued, “we didn’t deserve to be forgiven, but Jesus did anyway, and even died for us.”

I sat up in bed, burning with rage. “And for what?” I practically yelled. “So that people could still hurt other people? So that injustice could still happen in the world? It doesn’t seem like he did much good, honestly.”

“Sweetheart –” mom looked stricken. I could tell she was at a loss for words. What do you say to somebody after they’ve just told you something like that, after all? “I don’t have anything to tell you, except that hating this boy won’t help Jamie, or anyone. And it will hurt everyone, including you.” She opened my bible and flipped through it until she reached 1 John, then handed it to me. Anyone who hates a brother or sister is a murderer, and you know that no murderer has eternal life residing in him. “Is that what you want?” She said.

“Dean Lloyd isn’t my brother,” I spat. 

“Everyone is your brother and sister! We’re all God’s children!”

I didn’t respond, but sat in resentful silence that clearly said please leave. Mom complied with a sigh. “Just please think about it,” she said. 

I had no intention of doing as she asked, but found myself doing it anyway. I had to – not only were God’s words ingrained in my brain, but pasted onto my walls, engraved on my jewelry, were even on the stickers on my water bottle. They had once been my comfort, but now they felt like accusations, intrusive and loud. Praise the Lord. O Lord almighty, blessed is the man who trusts in you. Love your neighbor as yourself. The Lord’s prayer. My eyes drifted to forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and I couldn’t seem to unglue them. Jesus died for you. He promised you eternal life, but you cannot have it with this hate in your heart. 

Finally it was too much. I jumped up and ran out of my room, pulling on a coat on my way. “I’m gonna go on a walk!” I called upstairs, where mom was making supper. I dashed out the front door and kept running, trying to leave behind all the thoughts that plagued my mind. They were all jumbled, and yet made too much sense. Dean hurt Jamie. I want to hurt Dean now. I should be allowed to, but God doesn’t want me to. He loves Dean. 

I stopped running. I had reached the bridge that crossed over a little creek near my house. “Shut up!” I yelled. Even though I was angrier with my Father than I had ever been in my life, I hated the idea that he loved Dean. I shouldn’t care what he thinks, I thought. I shouldn’t care about him at all. Does he even care about me? He didn’t care about Jamie.

That’s when I started to cry. Big, choking sobs with tears that fell over the bridge and onto the ice below. My best friend had done something good. He had overheard Dean and his friends talking about jumping a kid after school, just for fun. Jamie had gone straight to a teacher without even thinking about what consequences there might be for him, because he was the kindest, most selfless person I knew. His reward? Well, since Dean had gotten their first target taken from them, they attacked Jamie instead. They still had their fun, and Jamie got hurt. And I was hurt, too, because you always hurt with the people you love. 

It was easier to hate than to just feel the pain, the sadness for a world that’s so broken. To understand that we were all just victims of sin, even Dean. Maybe him especially, because he didn’t know Jesus. I felt the hate fade at least a little bit as the sadness overwhelmed me, though. I just sat on the cold, hard bridge and cried. What else can you do, sometimes, especially when your heavenly Father is telling you hate and anger aren’t an option? 

Eventually the flow of tears slowed and I rose to my feet. The sun was setting and it cast a gold-red glow over the ice-covered trees and creek. It was beautiful. One last verse came into my head: He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. 

No, I couldn’t fathom what God was doing, or what his will was, or why these terrible things happened. But I could trust that, in the end, He would fix things, make them beautiful. Not just things that have been hurt the way Jamie was, but people like Dean, too, people I considered ugly and wrong. God could make them beautiful again, too. 

Hating Dean was pointless. More than that, it was harmful. It was murder. God told me so much. Forgiving him would be what helped to make things beautiful again. Loving him, even. The idea repulsed me, still, and again I saw Jamie’s face and felt a spark of vengeance. It still felt good, too. But it wasn’t right.

“God,” I whispered, staring at my shoes and wishing I didn’t feel such shame, “please help me to forgive Dean. You know I can’t do it on my own. And please forgive me, because I committed murder today.” I looked up, to the glowing face of the sun, which I imagined was the face of my Father, shining with joy because his daughter had returned to him. “And thank you for this beautiful sunset,” I added. 

It was good to have a reminder that, even in this broken world, there was something beautiful. It wasn’t easy to believe that it was just a taste of what was to come, but I knew it was right.