Here I go.
Reading about the execution of Dexter Lee Vinson, I kept seeing the movie Dead Man Walking superimposed on the story. The soundtrack played in my head as I took on the perspective of the accused, the victim, their families, the prison officials, and the governor in turn. It was an uncomfortable exercise in empathy. I would not have wanted to be any of them.
Gov. Tim Kaine has made known his personal feelings regarding the death penalty. He is against it based on the convictions of his Catholic faith. Yet he went against those convictions to uphold a decision made by the people of Virginia. And I commend him for that. Not for denying his conscience, but for making the more difficult choice.
Either choice would have been right. Both staying the execution and refusing to stay, in a metaphysical sense, defend life. That, I assume, is the Catholic precept: to preserve the sanctity of human life. But we as humans did not start out exalting our existence; God had to teach us to value life. And He did that by instituting the death penalty.
When Noah stepped off the ark, it was onto a different world. The entire population had been wiped out in God's judgment, and now the rules were different. Genesis 9:3-6 records God's new mandate:
To overturn a decision of the courts—and in doing so nullify a 9-year legal process—in order to pardon a convicted murderer would have been a statement affirming life. But allowing justice to take its course, demanding an account from Dexter Lee Vinson for the life of Angela Felton, makes a stronger statement. It carries the notion that human life is so weighty, so important, that we as a society will not shrink from whatever means necessary to protect and champion it. Even to the point of death.
Execution is messy. It leaves a dead body, images that witnesses probably wish they could erase, grief that family members did not deserve, antipathy on the part of many peace-loving citizens. But the governor was willing to accept all of these in his affirmation of the state's decision. He could have prevented this particular mess, and pacified those committed to his own stance on capital punishment, with one telephone call. Only the most cynical of critics would have characterized it as cowardice. I am sure there are many, however, including the family of Angela Felton, who were heartened by his courage.
"O death, where is thy sting?
O grave, where is thy victory?"
Today was my last day. I led a snack group in one of the cottages, helping the residents make pudding pies. During last week's group, I had unintentionally agitated Greg, who is blind and has Down Syndrome, resulting in a fit of screaming and overturning tables. I didn't mean to set him off; I felt terrible. Today brought a similar episode, only I was in another room. At least now I know it wasn't anything I did.
I wasn't the only one upset by it today, though. I noticed Shaun was missing as I started passing out the hand sanitizer. I thought maybe he had retreated to another room, until I nearly stepped on him. He was on the floor on the other side of the table. Shaun's chair was back to back with Greg's at the adjacent table. He must have taken cover when Greg started acting out. He lay on his stomach like a soldier behind a barricade. Shaun doesn't say much, but Jeffrey does.
"I'm going home this weekend. I'm leaving tomorrow."
"That's great, Jeffrey." He tells me the same thing every time I see him, no matter what day it is. He has moments of apparent lucidity, broken up by instances of incoherent mumbling, his eyes out of focus. Whenever I ask questions of the whole group, he is usually the first to answer. He'll even jump in when I pose a question to one of the other residents. Today, though, he couldn't tell me what we were making when I asked. I held up a pudding cup.
"What is this, Jeffrey?"
Nothing.
I tried to help him out: "P-p-p-."
Nothing.
"Puuu-."
Nothing.
"Pudding!"
"Pudding," he mumbled. There was no indication that he knew what he was saying.
We made the pudding pies—graham cracker crumbs, pudding, and whipped cream. Everyone told me which flavor he/she wanted: chocolate, vanilla, or butterscotch. Ronald always picks butterscotch. It's his favorite. But he never eats his pudding pie. Each week it sits on the table untouched. I thought this week would be no different. As others finished up, Ronald's bowl sat neatly on his napkin with his spoon beside it. I was in the kitchen starting to clean up when I heard, "Tastes good!" Ronald finally tasted his pudding pie, and he ate the whole thing.
After everyone else was done, I made a pie for Kim in her adaptive bowl and let her feed herself. Half of it ended up on her bib. In the hallway, Ronald handed her a page from a coloring book; he knows she likes to play with paper. She alternates holding it and crumpling it. Every so often she'll switch hands. I pretended to try and take it away, then let her pull it out of my grasp. She grinned. We played that game until I had to go.
As I was leaving the cottage, the last voice I heard was Jeffrey's.
"Bye, Meredith! Thanks for coming."
Melton sits at the table in the corner and you have to watch him like a hawk. I gave him a bowl of potato chips and stood there as he ate them one at a time. As soon as I walked away, he shoved a fistful in his mouth. "Melton! Slow down," I heard over my shoulder. I'd be lost without the cottage staff.
Lori sits at the center table, brushing her blonde dollbaby's hair into a fro. Her nutritional status has been downgraded, so I couldn't give her a snack today. They don't know if she'd be able to swallow it safely. She has one good eye and always seems to be smiling. Across from her is Willis.
Willis, blind and deaf, is the most graceful eater I have ever seen. His hands hover lightly over the food in front of him as he orients himself, then they make the clean trip to his mouth. As I was giving him his snack, Lori pointed to the corner and said, "Go back!" I looked and there was Melton, eyes fixed on Willis' cookies, sneaking out of his chair like a runner stealing third. "Sit down, Melton," I said, "Lori's got your number."