It was hard to think about Bill McVeigh on the day his son was executed.
It was excruciating to think about the Oklahoma City bomber's father over Father's Day weekend.
I hope he chose, as he did the day of his son's execution, to make it a quiet day with friends or family, perhaps working in the garden he reportedly takes pride in, away from the glare of media and an unforgiving world.
And I hope at some point he can begin to understand those who supported his son's death and those who didn't, those who lined up to hawk memorabilia carrying his son's name and those who claim they have no feelings one way or another on capital punishment.
A sign carried by a man across the road from the penitentiary the day before McVeigh died read, "Pray for Tim's dad on Father's Day. God forgive all of us."
God, I hope Bill McVeigh can do the same.
It must have been something in McVeigh's upbringing that caused him to snap, some said, those who had not met the older or younger McVeigh but are quick to spout junior-grade psychobabble.
Dirty for dirty, some said. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life and if we just tortured prisoners, as one pro-death penalty supporter proclaimed in Terre Haute, everything would be better.
But for all the inhumanity that surfaced from outsiders in the months and weeks and hours and moments before the first federal execution since 1963, glimmers of hope shone through, from those who have every right to rage at the world.
Bill McVeigh, father of perhaps the most-hated man on American soil, and Bud Welch, whose only daughter, Julie, died in the April 1995 blast orchestrated by Bill McVeigh's only son, continue to stay in touch, brought together by the most ungodly circumstances.
At their initial meeting, at Bill McVeigh's home, Bud Welch commented on how nice-looking Timothy McVeigh was in a photo displayed by the elder McVeigh.
Grace, in the midst of heartbreak. Forgiveness, in the face of unspeakable tragedy. Two fathers bound forever by the tragic intersection of their children's lives and now, even tighter by their children's deaths.
Or consider the story of Douglas Sloan, whom I met in the wee hours of Timothy McVeigh's execution day.
The Terre Haute man's son, Chad, was murdered on Jan. 22, 1997. Chad's hands were bound, and then he suffered 26 knife slashes and stab wounds, including seven stab wounds in the heart.
His murderers, Frank Dennis and Curtis Holsinger, are incarcerated at Michigan City -- both for life, without parole.
As he considers the fate some would have chosen for his son's murderers, Douglas Sloan's stooped posture stands in stark contrast to his soaring spirit.
"Would I be speaking today were it not for the murder of Chad? Where could I go and who would listen if I could not say that my son was murdered?" he asked death penalty foes gathered in Terre Haute.
"Without his death, all I would ever hear is, ‘If it happened to you, you would feel different.' It has happened to me, and I do not feel different -- the death penalty is wrong."
Almost three years after his son's death, Sloan's heart was giving out, and he had a pacemaker implanted in a body wracked by emotional damage. The terror, the helplessness, the grief? He did not let them win, he said.
"Imagine the damage I would have done to myself if I had harbored the hate and vengeance, rage and retribution necessary to advocate two executions," he said.
"The murderer does not have to die -- the hate and vengeance, rage and retribution have to die for the grief to subside and the healing to begin."
God forgive all of us. We can't seem to handle it ourselves.
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