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By Sally Vavrek

I could offer many, many reasons one should oppose the death penalty, but one not often considered is the redemption that occurs as one lives years with the constant threat of death.

I have had the joy of having two friends on death row, both of whom I would call redeemed human beings. One continues to live on death row in Baltimore - the other is dead.

My friend Donald was executed by the state of Missouri in April, 2005. In 1993, high on crack, he killed his grandmother to get drug money.

Donald lived with debilitating remorse the rest of his life; his grandmother had been a source of love and stability for him.

At a death penalty event in 1997, I picked up Donald's envelope from a huge pile of letters from death row inmates. I was smitten by Donald's spirit, his openness, humor and intelligence. He became a friend and over the eight years we knew one another, he became family.

Donald's belief that his death sentence would be commuted never wavered. In his last month, after the shocking news of his execution date, he still believed. I worried that his faith would falter - that perhaps his seemingly amazing reliance on God would turn out to be just words.

But that faith didn't waver. The last week he began saying, "I still have hope, but will accept whatever God's will is." And down to his last moment, as far as I know, he never lost that strength.

On my last visit to Donald, I met his family members, who shared about "Donnie's" life before drugs - how he was always a giver, worrying about everyone else but himself. He continued to live that way in prison, caring for and mentoring younger prisoners and worrying about his mother and young son.

And Donald lived that way to the end - asking if we were going to be okay. As he was administered the drugs that would kill him, he smiled and mouthed the words, "I love you."

I don't know why I decided I had to go to his execution. I just wanted Donald to die with people who loved him surrounding him.

I envisioned us holding hands and ushering him on to his new home - a sad but peaceful scene. In reality, the only peaceful part was Donald's grace.

Arriving at the penitentiary at 10 p.m., I was incredulous at the security - police and barricades were everywhere. I resented the parade of media and government officials coming to watch my friend die.

After clearing security, the twelve witnesses were ushered into a waiting room where, once again, guards intruded on our pain. A chaplain assured us that Donald remained composed and courageous. We were briefed on what to expect.

And then the phone rang, jarring us into reality.

We were led through the interior of the prison to a tiny theater-like room, with 12 chairs facing a curtained window. It was sickening to think of what was happening on the other side.

Within minutes the curtain was drawn and there was sweet Donald, all alone, lying on a gurney covered by a sheet.

He focused his eyes on his mother and as he mouthed his words of love we were told the first injection was being administered.

That peaceful scene I hoped for turned into a nightmare as Donald's body leaped upward with the jolt of the drugs. The next 10 minutes were like a macabre amusement park attraction, with people rocking back and forth, arms flailing, screams echoing through the air.

It was surreal - too awful to even believe. Donald's mother's voice haunts me, crying, "My baby, my baby!"

It was over. Angry remarks flew. "Well, we can feel safer now." "Now what did that solve?" And from his mother, "Can I touch him now?" Rules had prevented her from even hugging him good-bye.

Donald was free. He belonged to his family again. His funeral service was a true celebration of his life, filled with singing and stories of how Donald lived and died - an example for us all.

I live daily with the memory of this violent act, and the fact that legal killing is still going on is abhorrent to me. Please join me in working to end this unjust practice this year in Maryland. Let this be the year for repeal.

Sally Vavrek is a member of Asbury UMC in Arnold. She is on the board of directors of MDCASE.