I’ve always considered myself a decent man; one with more than his share of faults, but decent. I’m loyal to my friends, I try to be kind to people, and I’m loving and open with my family. I honor my father and the memory of my late and greatly missed mother.

But deep down in my Irish-American soul, I’m a grudge carrier. If I’m wronged, I’ll forgive to the extent I’m capable of doing so, but I’ll never forget it. I’ll never trust or feel comfortable around that person again.

I was torn, growing up, between a mother who told me God wanted me to turn the other cheek and a father who said God hates a coward. Respect and love my mother as I did, I couldn’t do what she asked of me when I was angry. Anyone who slapped my cheek would wait until Hell froze over for me to offer the other one. They were far more likely to experience swift and violent retribution.

The tragic murders of five young Amish girls in a Pennsylvania schoolhouse shocked and saddened me as it did everyone else. As their story came out, I was awed by the strength and faith of little Marian Fisher. Only thirteen-years-old, Marian is said to have asked the killer to shoot her first, in an apparent bid to save the lives of the younger girls.

I was humbled by the courage of the Amish community as they cared for and comforted not only each other, but also the family of the murderer, Charles Carl Roberts, who had viciously stolen their children from them.

A relative of Marion Fisher extended an invitation to Robert’s widow to attend little Marion’s funeral. “It’s our Christian love to show we have not any grudges against her,” the Amish woman said. An Amish man shook hands with the father-in-law of the killer, to comfort him, asking, “How could you hold a grudge against the wife, the family?”

How could you hold a grudge against the family? As I thought about his words, I was forced to admit to myself that I would. I would despise his entire family without cause. I would want his family to suffer as mine had. I would allow myself to be swallowed up by hatred and I would pay a price in my soul for doing so.

I would give up a part of myself and would learn the brutal truth behind the old saying “hate destroys the hater.” I would become less in my heart.

I know I would react this way because I did. My little sister, Barbara Ann, was murdered in St. Louis, Missouri ten years ago this December. She had done nothing wrong, nothing to deserve having her life torn from her and leaving her children orphaned.