A Family Opening

A few weeks ago, a couple hung back as other worshipers left the sanctuary, and then stopped to talk with me when it appeared we were alone. They quietly told me about their nephew, how his young adult life went through a really bad patch, spiraling out of control in part due to alcoholism, during which time he killed a convenience store clerk. The jury in his case sentenced him to life in prison without parole, and the judge overturned that and sentenced him to death. As we spoke, he was on death row in Alabama, scheduled to be executed on December 8. They talked about the deep friendship he had developed with Jesus and the ways in which he had established a ministry with fellow inmates, encouraging them in countless ways, including helping them get their GEDs. They named challenges in his legal defense, how previous attorneys had moved on, retired, even committed suicide. They said their nephew had made peace with being in prison, and that it just didn’t seem right or necessary that he die. We talked about prayer and hope, legal maneuvers and deep concern for the sister who was witnessing her son’s slow journey toward a likely death.

We talked again a week or two later, and I learned that steps in the appeals process had encountered multiple brick walls. On the evening of the 7th, I exchanged texts with the uncle and learned that the Alabama governor had said no, the Alabama Supreme Court had said no, the 11th Circuit Court of Appeals had said no. The last stop was the Supreme Court, and that’s where the question sat  on execution eve. The text closed with the single word, Horrific.

On the afternoon of the 8th, the uncle initiated a series of texts, reporting that 45 minutes before the scheduled injection, Clarence Thomas had signed a stay order, providing the Supreme Court 7 hours to further review the appeal. “A torture upon itself.” I dared to wonder if it could be a gift, while fearing it might simply prolong the agony. An hour and a half later he was back to report that the court was deadlocked 4 to 4..”Damn Republicans who held up Garland.” When I asked what a tie meant, he said, “They deliberate until one changes vote. If no one moves, game is over. This is criminal.” Two hours later the stalemate was over: “The 2nd stay was denied w/ 4-4 deadlock. Execution in 15 minutes. Thank you for trying, He is said to be okay with it. ” He signed off, asking for prayers for his sister and brother-in-law.

Over the course of the next couple of hours, I wandered around the Internet, and finally learned the nephew’s/inmate’s name, the victim’s name and the details of the crime. I also learned that Alabama had last executed someone early in 2016, and had then paused their killing machine for months because of problems with their drug regimen, and signs of suffering in a prolonged dying process. I read about the on again, off again dance going on with the Supreme Court, and that the execution was currently on for later that night. I carried all of that to bed with me, where it soured and stomped much of the night. When I surfaced in the morning, the news was clear: Ronald Bert Smith, Jr, was dead. Ronnie.

I might have survived the news if I’d stopped there, but I read on. It was reported that he had heaved and coughed for thirteen minutes; that he clenched his fists and raised his head in the early stages of the process; that at one point, his left eye appeared to be open. That it was a total of 34 minutes before the nightmare finally ended and he was pronounced dead. I can’t speak to just how unusual this punishment is (not very, I fear), but everything my heart. mind, and soul believe screams that it is cruel. Who are we as a people that we allow this? And how the hell did we get here??

And to think: had I managed to remain detached and objective, I would likely have shaken my head and walked away like always. There was little, if anything, new to me in this story: inconsistencies in sentencing, appeals and delays, drugs withheld by pharmaceutical companies and botched executions. I’ve never believed in or supported the death penalty, and I don’t like what I’ve heard about how it plays out, but I’ve also never before been broken by the report of it’s implementation. The piece that made the difference in this instance was the exquisite, excruciating gift the family offered when they invited me to accompany them along the way, allowing me to see past the headlines, positions, and arguments into the heart and soul of what it means to take a life. Any life. While I have less tolerance and patience than ever for debating the arguments for and against capital punishment, I would readily stand in line to hear the story of the family whose loved one was stolen from them by Ronnie Smith. For it’s in the telling and receiving of the story that we unearth the possibility of healing and hope. In the hearing and holding of stories, we maintain some contact, however tenuous, with each other and with our own humanity. When we’re willing to have our hearts broken open in order to receive the other, we create a space where God can meet us, weep with us, and hold us all in one embrace.