It's 1:06 am this Monday morning and Brian Nichols is in custody. Brian Nichols who murdered the judge, clerk, agent, and officer. There was a host of people who applauded his capture, some out of relief, some out of anger. And sadness filled me once again.

I heard some people who knew him say that they were shocked by what he did. They didn't know how he could have done what he did. There were no warning signs.

In days to come, I am certain we will be made to know all of the supposed warning signs, from security to shanks; from rape to restrictions; from imprisonment to feeling free. How could it happen?

It started a long time ago. Long before his jail time for rape charges. Long before he turned 21. Long before there even seemed to be a trace of this calculation. My heart goes out to all on this Winters night.

I am truly sad and cannot sleep . . .

Brian Nichols' story goes back. How could it happen? It could happen because of all the times he fought to be heard, and was met with criticism and silence. It happened because people failed him along the way. Because the system failed him. Because family failed him. Because he bought lies instead of truths. Because I failed him. Because we all failed him. Because he was destined to meet Ashley Smith. Because God loves him, and God's compassion goes beyond our mere sensibility, our limited capacity.

It happened because we live in a world where messages are confused, and tragedy and patriotism are discrete lovers. Because Brian Nichols believes he's a soldier and soldiers kill for a higher purpose. Because Brian Nichols was under orders. Because war is savagery. Because war is noble. Because that's what he was told by WE, you and me, those friends, those loved ones, our president. Because we are all prisoners, and sometimes we just want to feel normal; to have pancakes baked for us; to take a shower; to put down our guns; to feel loved; to feel normal. To live.

Because Ashley Smith showed more bravery than hate, more love than fear. Because she reminded us of what it means to be human, stripped from the right and wrong, devoid of judgment, free to touch heart to heart, soul to soul. Because Ashley Smith cared. All the guns in the world, all the snipers on tall buildings, all the manhunts, all the hate fueled bullets being chambered could not bring that kind of redemption. Because Ashley Smith cared. Because Ashley Smith gave a damn.

I am saddened tonight because lives have been lost and prayer is a foreign sound on my tongue, echoing repeatedly in the passage ways of my mind, because I need to care, and cry for Brian Nichols. Cry for that small child who dreamed about one day being something great, something beautiful. Cry for that small child: so bright, so aware. Cry for that teenager who started to harden, made aware of imperfections, fitted on the masks, adjusting them into a smirk, a scowl, false resilience. Cry for the man who questionably raped. Cry for his prison self, forgotten by all of us who pray and don't pray. Cry for the man who sat in Ashley Smith's apartment, not recognizing the man who did those horrible killings. Cry. Then cry again. Cry that he was once held as a screaming baby, so much potential, so much innocence. Cry that life raped him. Cry as I cry now.

And once the tears sting, once when you can taste the salt pellets, once when you can feel some softness in your heart, once when you are ready to recognize that there but for the mercy of God and Life's arms go you and I, once when you see yourself in Brian's sad eyes, once when you can see his pain, her fear, his life, her wisdom, his desire, her daughter, his hope, our life, then shall you pray. Not just for the families who lost loved ones, but pray for all. Pray for the trial. Pray for Brian. Pray for Ashley. Pray for the laughing children of today. Pray for the terrorized children of tomorrow. Pray for this country. Pray for this world. Pray for peace, for we have enough soldiers dying and killing for projected, honorable and dishonarable wars. Pray for you. Pray for me. Pray for us all. But above all else: PRAY. With chants like weapons. With love like bombs. With hope like a new dawn caressing us, like dust to dust. With a simple thanks. With pleas that hang like the small chatter of spring mornings. With the words: I love . . .