To heal, I reached for many tools. What brought me the most peace of mind was forgiveness. As I lay in intensive care after being shot, I remember feeling anger at the society I lived in. As I smelled alcohol and heard the monitors beep, I could not move because of an IV the doctors inserted after surgery to remove the bullet from my abdomen. I tried to make sense of what happened. Being active in the anti-war and the women’s movements in the late 60s and 70s, I knew I lived in a country of haves and have-nots. The have-nots could wreak havoc on society due to their lack of life resources.
In the beginning I looked at my situation through shock and numbness. But as the feelings began to hit, I aimed my anger at the two predators who killed Mother and Daddy and shot me. Did they have any idea what they took from us? I hated them, and was glad Lugar was dead and wished Collins the same.
Lugar and Collins both lived in Roanoke, an hour from Blacksburg. Each came from a broken home. Lugar grew up in Roanoke and excelled in track. When his parents separated, he stayed in a children’s home. In an interview with Lugar’s brother Barry, after the shootings, he spoke to reporters Gail Dudley and Ray Reed with The Roanoke Times. Barry Lugar said Greg Lugar had been on drugs for half his life and needed to be institutionalized. Weeks prior to our family murders, he was charged with public drunkenness and resisting arrest. The judge dismissed the case when Greg said he would get help. His family begged the judge to put him away. Greg Lugar’s family reported that he had stopped hanging with Collins until the night of the Blacksburg assaults. When they came to our house, they were running from the police after killing a druggist in Roanoke. They needed money and a car to escape. Lugar died in a shoot out with police later that night. I endured the trial with Collins.
In the beginning I raged with enough anger to kill. They destroyed our family, burning a mark for generations.
Over the years of rage and hostility and darkness, I began to feel the need to unburden, basically for my own well-being. I needed my mental health. To hold onto the hatred only continued the cycle of pain. So, slowly, with baby steps, I was able to let go. The struggle continues.
For years, I couldn’t visit Blacksburg. I blamed the town for not protecting us. Then I began to have minimal contact with Blacksburg people. I met with Dottie Kassem in Atlanta in the early 90s. Dottie and I grew up in the same neighborhood. Eating our breakfast together, she reminisced, “I remember how you used to babysit with my sisters and me.”
And I replied “I held baby Amy in my arms. How tiny she was.”
I ran into Ann Wisean at the Women’s Conference at the Grove Park Inn. Ann also lived in our old neighborhood. “We have never forgotten what happened to your family”, she said.
Each time I saw someone from my old home town, I felt connection and care from them. When I did start visiting Blacksburg again, I spent time with Dorothy and Charlie Domermuth and Lou and Shakey Kassem, our long-time neighbors who my brothers and I regard as extended family. Dorothy Domermuth commented, “I remember how our families used to spend Easter together having an Easter egg hunt with all the kids. We’d all help the little ones find the eggs.”
And Lou Kassem added, “What fun we’d have in battling with the eggs at the end to see whose shell cracked first!”
In the 90s I visited Evelyn Loope Camden in Blacksburg, staying at her mom’s for the weekend. She traveled from Pennsylvania and I came up from North Carolina. We stayed up late, chattering as we did at slumber parties in high school days. One night Evelyn said, “Blacksburg was a wonderful place to grow up.”
To my shock, I had to agree. We benefited from living in a college town–its library, swimming pool, lectures and concerts. This helped me to stop blaming my town. My feelings softened. I was able, then, to take the next step.
Forgiving Blacksburg.
My brother Dale is neutral about the predators. It happened, he says, and we need to move on. Brother Paul reflects, “I don’t know how to explain it, but eventually, God gave me a special compassion for the murderers. That doesn’t bring our parents back or remove the pain of missing them, but it does give me peace.” Brother Rick believes that people who kill others have no concept of the long-term consequences of their actions, that extend over at least three generations. Yet he rarely thinks of the perpetrators. He commented, “They’re included in my scope of forgiveness.”
I felt I came home with my feelings when I learned from a friend in 1994, about Murder Victims’ Families for Reconciliation. MVFR is an organization of family members who lost loved ones to murder, as well as death row inmate family members who lost loved ones to state executions. MVFR states that all killing is wrong, including state executions. Why do we kill to stop the killing? It doesn’t make sense. To forgive means we leave revenge behind.
I met Suezann Bosler, who along with her dad, was stabbed by an intruder. She had to crawl to get help. Her dad died, and she suffered injuries. Due to their Brethren religious belief, Suezann fought to keep the killer from execution.
I also met Tom Fewel. Tom Fewel’s seven-year-old daughter was murdered on her way to school one morning. Tom and his wife Joy spoke out against the death penalty at the trial, and the jury chose incarceration. Tom wrote, “I believe that human life is sacred, that this sanctity is imparted by God to every individual and cannot be forfeited.”
During my first encounter with Murder Victims’ Families for Reconciliation, I participated in the Journey of Hope in Virginia in the fall of 1996. I volunteered to speak in Blacksburg. The Journey of Hope was a state educational tour where we shared our stories of killing and eventual forgiveness.
I spoke at two churches in Blacksburg–one was the Lutheran Church where I could look out and see the house where we grew up, where the shootings occurred. I told my story and I shared my choice to forgive. I remember two older white-haired ladies in the audience with tears streaming down their faces, remembering that night like it was yesterday. I spoke at my home church, Blacksburg Presbyterian, where many family friends sat in the audience.
I began my speech with
It is so good to be here. I love visiting Blacksburg. When my brothers and I come to Blacksburg, we all leave feeling nurtured. We may not have a home to visit Mother and Daddy anymore, but we are welcome in so many homes here. People make us feel a part of their families. To feel this love and care is important to us. Blacksburg is a special place for me. It’s taken me a while to get to this point, but I have done it. There was a period when I couldn’t visit here at all. It was too painful. Now as I spend time here, rich memories flood over me.
Journal October 8, 1996 after trip to Virginia for Journey of Hope
being at the Blacksburg Presbyterian Church touched me…hugs from Liz Brown (my Junior High Sunday school teacher) meant the world to me…Ruth Shoulders told me about a retreat she went on with our mother where she said, “The most important thing in my life is taking care of my children.” And Ruth said, “It paid off. Look at all of you.” This made me cry…Roy Blazer and his wife were there…He said, “Your mother and daddy were the most loving and caring people I’ve ever known. What happened to them was senseless”…I felt like I had come home and I told this to Woody Leach, our minister… His reply: “You have”…it made me realize that people in Blacksburg suffered, too, from Mother and Daddy’s murders… also, I am comforted by the fact Mother and Daddy were so well thought of…I got lots of compliments on speech… I am so happy I summoned the strength to go through with it
Much healing happened that day–for me and my parents’ friends and the community. To see how I’d come to grips with the shootings and chosen forgiveness helped us all to heal. It was that time in Blacksburg that crystallized my belief in forgiveness.
Journal May 4, 1997
how gratifying to move away from the hostile feelings
Healing from Gun Shots 