{"id":4854,"date":"2018-08-30T23:58:08","date_gmt":"2018-08-30T23:58:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/baonline.cog7engage.net\/?p=4854"},"modified":"2023-08-29T11:22:40","modified_gmt":"2023-08-29T17:22:40","slug":"inside-job","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/baonline.cog7engage.net\/inside-job\/","title":{"rendered":"Inside Job"},"content":{"rendered":"

Wendi Johnson as told to Karen Foster<\/em><\/p>\n

I pulled my baking sheet out of the oven and inhaled the sweet scent of chocolate chip cookies. When I bit into a warm one, my tears came \u2014 again. These cookies were bound for the male inmates in one of our state prisons.<\/p>\n

Would one of the three men who\u2019d killed my husband be eating them? I hoped so. But I never would have believed that thought was possible.<\/p>\n

On September 27, 2005, my twenty-year-old son, Brandon, left a message at work for me to call him. I presumed he wanted to talk about a job interview he\u2019d had that day.<\/p>\n

I was wrong. Without explanation, he said, \u201cAuntie Dawn is coming to get you.\u201d<\/p>\n

My heart froze. \u201cWhy is my sister picking me up?\u201d Brandon dodged my questions, but right before he hung up, he said, \u201cDon\u2019t worry, Mom. I\u2019ll take care of you.\u201d<\/p>\n

My stomach lurched. I thought of calling my husband, Kim, but started shaking. What if something had happened to him? I pressed my hand over my mouth and ran to the restroom.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Horrible news<\/h2>\n

My sister arrived, her eyes red and puffy. \u201cWhere\u2019s Kim?\u201d I grabbed her hand. \u201cIs he dead?\u201d<\/p>\n

She nodded. The room swirled, and I collapsed into her arms with a gut-wrenching scream. How could my husband be dead? I\u2019d talked with him on the phone during lunch. Didn\u2019t Kim say he\u2019d left work early and was home?<\/p>\n

Was it a heart attack? What if the gun he\u2019d been cleaning for the hunting season had accidentally gone off? His final words \u2014 \u201cI love you, darling\u201d \u2014 squeezed my heart. I leaned against my sister and urged her, \u201cGet me home!\u201d<\/p>\n

Yellow caution tape sealed off my street. I stretched my neck to see beyond the police cars. \u201cWhere\u2019s my son?\u201d I cried, pacing back and forth. \u201cI want my son!\u201d<\/p>\n

Just then, Brandon ran up to me. Chests heaving, we clung to each other and wept. My son told me he\u2019d come home and found Kim, his stepdad, lying on the basement floor in a pool of blood. He\u2019d been beaten and shot in the head. Many of our electronics and guns were gone, including the handgun used to kill my husband.<\/p>\n

Two days passed before the police allowed me to go into my home. I was numb as they escorted me through the house and questioned me. When I entered our master bedroom, I gasped. The blue-gray T-shirt Kim wore the last time I\u2019d seen him was splayed across our bed.<\/p>\n

I grabbed the shirt and breathed in his clean scent. Tears flooding my eyes, I slumped like a rag doll on the bed and wept.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Unsettled<\/h2>\n

After Kim\u2019s funeral, I moved back into the house with Brandon. We installed a burglar alarm, but it didn\u2019t alleviate our fears. What if the murderer was someone we knew? I kept the alarm\u2019s panic button with me at all times.<\/p>\n

Nights were the worst. Unable to sleep, my mind searched for answers. I listened for the slightest sound, rushed to Brandon\u2019s bedside whenever nightmares woke him up and he needed me. My only comfort was prayer and Deuteronomy 31:6: \u201cBe strong and courageous . . . for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you\u201d (NIV).<\/p>\n

A year after Kim\u2019s death, the handgun was found, leading to the arrest of three men. However, relief morphed into impatience as I waited another year and a half for the trial.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Desiring justice<\/h2>\n

During that time, Kairos Prison Ministry came to our church to organize an intensive weekend Bible study at one of our state prisons. They asked for volunteers to bake cookies for the prisoners.<\/p>\n

I crossed my arms. I wasn\u2019t going to bake cookies for some criminal. Preach the gospel if you like, but I want justice. <\/em><\/p>\n

I rushed out of church and drove home. Although the men were behind bars, I double-bolted the door and threw my car keys on the granite kitchen counter. Bake cookies?<\/em> I breathed deep and listened to Christian praise music to calm my nerves.<\/p>\n

And then I had to face my enemy. For seven days in September 2008 I sat in the courtroom behind the two men who killed my husband. The third man had already pled guilty and testified at the trial. As I listened to the prosecuting attorney, I learned the men had needed money, mistook our house for someone else\u2019s, and thought the place was empty.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf only\u2019s\u201d replayed in my head. If only the seventeen-year-old who pulled the trigger had stayed in school that day. If only they\u2019d entered our neighbor\u2019s house, my husband would still be alive. If only Kim\u2019s pistol had been in the gun safe.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tears and anger<\/h2>\n

I\u2019d never seen the crime scene photographs until the trial. Now, seeing the horror of Kim\u2019s final moments crushed my heart. I wept countless tears. My anger grew. I kept waiting for the men to face me. Beg for my forgiveness. Even when I was on the witness stand and excused myself because I became sick to my stomach, their cold, dark eyes stared straight ahead as though I were invisible.<\/p>\n

The jury found the men guilty of first-degree murder, and they each received a life sentence.<\/p>\n

End of story, or so I thought. Negative thoughts consumed me. I tried to forget the past for the sake of my family and health. I even volunteered to bake cookies for Kairos Prison Ministry. As I stirred the chocolate chips into the dough, tears rolled down my cheeks. What would Kim say if he saw me baking cookies for convicted felons? I wiped my eyes and set the oven timer. Lord, make my spirit as sweet as these cookies. Use them for Your glory. <\/em><\/p>\n

I prayed for the men, by name, who killed my husband. They weren\u2019t evil. The poor decisions they\u2019d made in life had a domino effect that led to Kim\u2019s death. Now they suffered the consequences.<\/p>\n

Maybe I could forgive them, but my heart needed more time than it took to bake several dozen cookies.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Unforeseen answer<\/h2>\n

My prayers were answered, but not in the way I expected. My son had become addicted to prescription pain pills he\u2019d taken for a sports injury, and he wanted something stronger to purge the memory of finding his murdered stepfather on the floor. Six years to the day of Kim\u2019s death, Brandon was arrested for the possession of illegal drugs. He called me from jail. \u201cMom, get me out of here.\u201d<\/p>\n

When I saw the dark circles under his hollow eyes, I had to look away. A thick glass window separated us, so we used a phone to hear each other. I offered to post bail, provided he went to a Christian rehabilitation program. Brandon agreed but realized it would take about a month to get accepted.<\/p>\n

When our visitation ended, Brandon stood up to leave and looked back at me over his sunken shoulders. His pleading eyes yanked my heart. I bowed my head and sobbed. I loved my son, but only the Lord could save him. He needed God\u2019s grace \u2014 the same way I did.<\/p>\n

I thought of the other men sitting in prison. Where was their hope? Did they know about God\u2019s grace? Visiting my son in jail roused my compassion for prisoners. In addition to baking cookies, I hosted an annual hayride and invited the community to bring toys for the Angel Tree Program.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Granting forgiveness<\/h2>\n

But my heart wouldn\u2019t rest until I wrote the men who murdered my husband. \u201cGod loves you, regardless of what you\u2019ve done,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019ve forgiven you, and God\u2019s willing to forgive you if you turn to Him.\u201d<\/p>\n

The following month, I gasped when I opened my mailbox and saw the envelope\u2019s return address. My hands shook as I read the prisoner\u2019s handwritten letter. \u201cI\u2019m sorry for all the pain I caused you and your family. Thank you, Wendi, for your letter. I prayed for a sign that I\u2019d been forgiven.\u201d<\/p>\n

I clutched the letter to my chest. All along, this man had been praying and waiting too. The young man who pulled the trigger also replied with heartfelt words that made me weep. God had been working in all our lives to heal, redeem, restore.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Sharing a story<\/h2>\n

When Forsyth Prison Ministry asked for volunteers to participate in their services at Cherry State Prison, my hand went up. On a summer evening in 2014, I walked through the metal detector of that prison with a plate of cookies and a heart filled with praise. The next year, I shared my story in front of a hundred inmates. Some of them wiped their eyes. Others slowly shook their heads.<\/p>\n

\u201cFor all have sinned and fallen short of God\u2019s glory,\u201d I said, referencing Romans 3:23. \u201cNo one is beyond God\u2019s love and grace.\u201d The men gathered around me to shake my hand when I finished speaking.<\/p>\n

People ask how I could forgive the men who killed my husband. Sometimes, I ask myself that question when I see Kim\u2019s shirt tucked in my dresser drawer. Or when I bake chocolate chip cookies for prison ministry.<\/p>\n

I tell them God\u2019s love softened my heart, one batch of cookies at a time.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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