I was recently reading a book called "Anne Frank Remembered" by Meip Geis, the woman who helped Anne Frank and her family while they were in hiding in Amsterdam during the Holocaust years. In the book, Meip says that she was raised never to hate, and felt some confusion when, as a young woman, she was faced with the Nazis. I remember when I read it the impact this had on me, and wondered if I would have had any second thoughts about hating the Nazis.
Then something happened in my own life that made me face this.
A few miles from where my house is, a woman, she could have been like me or any other woman I go to church with or see at the playground, took her three little boys out in the middle of the night, the night before Mother's Day last year, and stoned them. By stoned them, I mean, threw rocks at them until the two oldest died, and the youngest was severely, severely beaten.
Now, the papers are full of pictures and stories about this woman's trial, which is starting up, and the defense is coming from the angle of making this woman look like mom-of-the-year... up until the time she killed her kids. It makes me ill.
And when I see those headlines in the local papers every day, I want the woman to burn for eternity. Then I look inside myself, and wonder how it is that I can actually wish that on a person, even a person who committed such a horrible crime as this.
Is there ever really a situation when hate is okay? Are there some people who deserve to be hated, who deserve to have people wanting them to burn for eternity?
This is really just a musing, but it makes me wonder about my own soul, when I can look at someone who, one year ago, could have been me, and hope that they suffer forever.

) that I have set them in their beds and walked outside, in a raging temper, or just totally strung out, and I felt guilty for doing that... There have been days when I think I can understand the frustration those moms who do that kind of thing must have felt. There's never been a day, though, that it's crossed my mind to take my children outside and throw rocks at them, or give them a bath and hold them under the water, or feed them poisoned kool-aid.

and who knows my tendencies towards depression (I've struggled with clinical depression since I was a child... so she checks up on me from time to time) and who doesn't promote the "supermom syndrome" that you get so often. And I have a wonderful husband, who, on one or two occasions, took an afternoon of vacation, or left class early, because he knew I needed him to come home and take over with the boys.