A gift of forgiveness

Each year, about 1,500 U.S. children 14 and younger are hurt in gun accidents - a statistic used as ammunition in a political war over guns.

Last spring, best friends Jake Sheehan and Jared Davidson joind the statistics when a gun went off in the Sheehan's home. The news merited a short story in The Seattle Times.

At the time, both boys' families shunned a curious press and public, wanting to mourn and eal in privacy. But, haunted by that day, Jake's mother, Cindy Sheehan, later wrote an essay about their trauna. "It's a prayer of every parent everywhere, It is a plea to lock up guns kept in a family home," she says. Sheehan takes no position beyond that. NOr does Jared's mother, Rhonda Borella, who recounts how she found forgiveness. Their interest is not in politics, but in the healing of two children. ---------------------------

by Cynthia Sheehan

Jake's mon

On May 19th, our then-13-year-old son, Jake Sheehan, accidentally shot and severely wounded his friend, Jared Davidson, in our Bothell home. While Jared is now healed and healthy, we are just beginning to put the puzzle pieces of our lives back together. But no matter how we try, we know it will never again be what we held as normal.

For a couple of days after the accident, cars would pull into our cul-de-sac and people, strangers with children, would stop and look at our house. It was as if they wanted something. An explanation? An answer? An assurance that what happened in this house could never happen in theirs? Those people have haunted me. Because I know the truth. We used to be them. This heartache could be theirs and if I have to share the brutal details to ensure that it won't, then so be it.

I don't often give advice. As the mother of four boys I'm usually on the receiving end, the bulk of which comes from my own parents: The veterans of seven children, they have earned the right to give it. No, what I have to offer is a glimpse of reality for parents who think they have worked their magic by giving a handful of lectures from a list of forbiddens.

I offer you the blood of one child and the anguish of another, the savaged hearts of two families and the consequences of taking everyday, ordinary minutes for granted until suddenly, like a rattlesnake in short grass, that one awful minute jumps up and bites you.

That one minute. For us it arrived on May 19 at 5:54 p.m. Our 13-year-old son, Jake, was in our home alone with his best friend, Jared. The minute started with Jake's discovery of a .45 semiautomatic handgun in our bedroom closet. Jake's father is a police officer and only a week before had informed Jake that over the summer he would properly train him on firearms.

But at the minute he found the gun Jake had no training. When he was sure the gun held no clip, he thought it was safe to show Jared. He was ignorant to the fact there could be a bullet resting in the chamber. He didn't know that, in fact, there was a bullet in the chamber until the gun accidentally went off.

The bullet traveled through Jared's liver and left lung and left him ripped and torn and fighting for his life in the middle of our kitchen floor. The sound of childhood departing is more than a firecracker, less than an M-80.

Jake did everything he could for Jared. He dialed 911 and ran for towels. He pressed his hands to the hole in his friend and tried to stop what was happening.

He tried to turn back time. But time, like a bullet, does not travel backward. If it could, it would see two boys so close they no longer knocked on each other's front doors; they simply walked in, each an acknowledged part of the other's family. It would find these two children in more innocent moments: skateboarding and teasing girls. It would capture them in snapshots of glory: finishing a football game with a broken finger, winning the MVP at a hockey tournament.

The ghost of days past would present them eating an entire box of cereal in a mixing bowl and howling at the antics of John Candy. Now, alone in the kitchen, blood pooling on the floor, the howling between them was of shock and grief.

Jared was airlifted to Harborview and Jake was arrested for reckless endangerment. Jake's father was broken at the sight of his son undergoing the solemn procedure of fingerprints and a photograph; misery forever burned in black and white. When we finally made it to Harborview we were sick with the dread of hearing Jared's status, of facing the anger of Jared's family.

What words could possibly convey our regret? Jake's legs shook so hard he stumbled out of the elevator and then, like a miracle, into the arms of forgiveness and compassion so profound that to this day it still overwhelms me.

Jared's family found no room for anger, only love and concern for the children and the separate traumas each was traveling through. When a doctor said only immediate family could see Jared, his mother put her arms around Jake and said, "This is his brother." They entered the room together.

When I saw the look in Jake's eyes after he'd seen Jared I knew he would never be the same. Later, during the ride home from the hospital, he sobbed, "Jared has doctors and things to make him better. But there's just not any medicine for me." I feared that he was right and I prayed that he was wrong.

The medicine of love

The doctors at Harborview offered assurances for Jared's recovery and while he steadily did so, we took Jake to counseling.

A quiet boy to begin with, now he was even more so. But it was Jared's family that provided the real healing. They told Jake they forgave him and encouraged him to forgive himself. They made space for him and our family at Jared's bedside. Despite their own exhaustion and heartache, they spoonfed their love to Jake and that was his medicine.

On the third day Jared sat in a wheelchair and looked out over a westerly view of things other people thought worthy of spending millions of dollars on: Safeco Field and the soon-to-be stadium next to it. He looked up at the water-stained ceiling in this place of miracles where he was recovering and we knew just what he was thinking. Every hour the elevator doors opened and another fresh case of Hell rolled down the hall: the 18-month-old baby scalded by a pan of boiling water, the 10-year-old with a broken neck and pelvis from an auto accident, the young man hardly recognizable as such after a motorcycle accident. What were people thinking, we wondered, as we clung to each other and the fresh hope this battered place offered to so many.

On the sixth day Jared came home, and now he is a little out of breath as he runs. But that, he assures us, is only temporary. Such a rare and brave boy.

Through all the pain he suffered, his main concern was to make sure all the adults understood it was an accident. The first time he came back into our home after the accident, he went directly to the kitchen and sat at the table. He grinned and patted it and said: "Ah, it's good to be home."

Yes, Jared, it is good to have you home.

Lessons learned

Jake strives to earn the forgiveness so lovingly offered by Jared's family. He has nightmares about the pain and scars he caused his friend. As parents we suffer with him and shoulder our portion of the burden. We learned many lessons from the tragedy. We learned about the power of prayer and the beauty of compassion. We learned that just because you tell your children not to do something it doesn't mean they never will. We learned that if you have a gun in your home, you have to lock it up. That is the only hard-earned advice we have the right to offer you. Please heed it. Your children and those of others may not survive your serenity.

Their friendship is stronger than ever. As I watch them walk down the street together, skateboards tucked neatly under their arms, I pray they can find the innocence they had before that minute. I thank God for the grace of Jared's family toward ours and for all the people who offered prayers and support. I wish for everyone a hundred thousand minutes of everyday, ordinary life, and while you're making dinner and doing the laundry, cursing the traffic and the rain, kissing your kids goodnight, keep your eyes open for rattle snakes in short grass. They bite hard.

-- Cindy Sheehan is a travel counselor for AAA-Washington. Her husband, John, has been a Redmond police officer for 13 years. Jake is the eldest of their four sons.

-- Jake was charged with unlawful possession of a firearm and reckless endangerment in King County Juvenile Court. Wednesday, he was sentenced to four months probation and 16 hours of community service. His case will be reviewed at the end of the probation, when charges could be dismissed and his record expunged. Jake plays football for Northshore Junior High where he is a middle linebaker. He and Jared are in eighth grade together at Northshore Junior High School.

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by Ronda Borella Jared's mom

Early in the evening of Friday, May 19, Rhonda Borella was setting out tableware at her home in Bothell, where she was hosting a baby shower for a co-worker. A guest arrived to say police cars were gathered down the street and crime-scene tape was draped around a neighbor's house. Borella's first thought was "Oh my God, Jared and Jake are there." She told her story to Seattle Times reporter Marc Ramirez.

The street was full of people. News vans were already there, but nobody had contacted me. I remember seeing kids crying. A cop said, "Are you Jared's mom?"

But Jared was already at Harborview being operated on, and the police wouldn't say if he was OK. I crumpled into a little pile on the ground.

They put me in a police car. I didn't know where anyone was. Mike, my husband, was out fishing. Cindy, Jake's mom, had taken two of her boys to a hockey tournament. I banged on the window for the police to let me out.

"Where's Jake?" I said. I wanted to give him a hug.

We waited three hours at the hospital before we were able to see Jared. I will never forget the horror of seeing my baby, who has never had a slow moment in his life, stopped in his tracks. Tubes, bandages and blood were what had become of my son the football player, long-distance track runner, life of the party.

I didn't know the details, just that Jake had accidentally shot Jared.

But once doctors told me that Jared would be OK, I fell out of panic mode and hit relief. My thoughts were for Jared's brother, B.J., and how we were going to help him. And for Jared . . . I didn't know how he was going to take the whole thing.

Officer Sheehan called. He kept telling me, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," and asking if he could bring Jake to the hospital.

They showed up Sunday. Jake was so sad. He couldn't talk; he was barely functioning. I gave him a hug. You could almost see the net go up around all of us, just to protect the boys and our families.

I sat next to Jared's bed for three days and nights holding his hand, and when he was asleep I cried and prayed. I think that it was during those hours in the middle of the night that I really had the opportunity to think about what had happened and to find the forgiveness.

I thought about the horror they went through, together, and that it would bring them back together. I really wanted them to stay friends. I know Jake; he's a good boy. I thought back to them playing together, skateboarding, eating all the food in the house.

When they first took the tubes out of Jared's mouth, he said, "Where's Jake? You're not going to let them do anything to him, Mom, are you?"

Six days later, we took our now-90-pound, bandaged boy home. He looked like a little old man hunched over with his hand in front of his chest. As the days passed, he grew stronger, as did my heart, and we began to focus on helping Jake recover.

It did occur to me: Why was there a gun in the house? Every once in a while, that flashes through my mind. Why wasn't it locked up? They've got four kids over there. It could have been any of them. It could have been Jake.

But I never was angry at Jake. He couldn't look any of us in the face, he was so stricken with guilt and sadness. It was hard to see Jared getting better and then not see Jake getting better. And I knew that Jared would have wanted me to help him to do that. He's a pretty loving kid.

If Jake had shot and killed Jared, would I be angrier toward Jake? I think I'd still feel the same way. Because in the end, that's what Jared would have wanted me to do. And I'd like to think I would have been able to pull that off, that I would have had the character. It might have taken me longer.

I never would have let Jared go over there in the first place if I didn't agree with how they raise their kids. But the first time Jared wanted to go back afterward, I had a hard time letting him. Jared just said, "You know, Mom, it was an accident." And it was.

People wonder why my family and I have reacted the way we have. Cindy and I talk about it. She always asks me because people always ask her. I know that Jake is a great kid and would never do anything to hurt Jared or anybody else. I love Jake as much as I love my kids. Accidents happen.

Am I angry? Yes, I am angry . . . sometimes so angry that I can't believe it's coming from me. These are the groups with whom I am angry: the TV reporters who repeatedly called our homes and our children's private lines; the National Rifle Association; the Legislature; the King County prosecutors. I've sent six or seven letters to prosecutors asking them not to press charges. They think I'm out of line.

Why are strangers and acquaintances so interested in why I am not angry at an innocent boy and his family? I feel compassion and empathy toward them and sleep every night without the guilt that they may never overcome.

I never thought I'd be glad to see my son's messy bedroom, or to hear him tell me how short I am as he grows taller. I never thought I'd be glad about driving to Skate King. I'm grateful for every moment I have with him.

I still tell my kids I love them every day when they go to school. But now it has more meaning. They understand why.

I keep Cindy's essay in my purse. I read it almost every day, although I try not to at work because it makes me cry. But it's important to remember what happened . . . and how lucky we are.

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-- Rhonda Borella is a consultant for a full-service staffing company. Her husband, Mike, is a Head Start teacher. Jared is the younger of two children.

-- Jared's punctured lung has not completely reinflated, so he tires more easily than normal. He has taken the field several times this fall to play Inglemoor junior-league football, and in time is expected to make a full recovery.

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