When Justice Isn't Enough, But God Still Is

There are some losses in this life that no courtroom can ever make right. There is a part of grief that people do not talk about nearly enough, and maybe it is because it makes people uncomfortable, or maybe it is because it forces us to look at something we would rather keep hidden.

It is the anger.

Not the fleeting kind, but the kind that settles in your heart and takes up residence there. The kind that feels justified, earned, and even righteous. When someone takes something from you that can never be returned—a child, a future, a life you carried and loved—there is something inside of you that rises and says, this is not okay, and it should be paid for. That feeling is not wrong. It is rooted in justice.

I don't want to sound preachy, but the Book of Romans tells us clearly that governing authorities are established by God, that they do not bear the sword in vain, and that they are meant to carry out justice on wrongdoing. I have lived that truth not just as a believer, but inside the system itself. I have walked through courtrooms, I have seen verdicts handed down, and I have even had the honor of serving in the Arkansas House of Representatives, helping shape the very laws that are meant to protect the innocent and hold the guilty accountable. I believe in justice. I always will.

But what I have learned—through the deepest pain a person can endure—is that earthly justice, no matter how necessary, is not final justice. There are some wounds that no verdict can touch.

My daughter Andi was twelve years old, full of life, full of joy, and full of the kind of love that made everything around her brighter. She had this little cat that she adored, and she named it Peanut Butter and Jelly because she said it looked just like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. That was who she was—lighthearted, creative, and full of a sweetness that cannot be manufactured. I can still hear her giggle in my mind. That is what was taken.

And no sentence on this earth can ever equal the value of her life. So the question becomes—what do you do with the part of you that wants more than what this world can give? What do you do with the part of you that wants vengeance? Because if I am honest, there were moments when I wanted it. Not in a passing way, but in a way that felt like it might consume me if I let it. Sort of like the dad in Lonoke County. Since I heard his story (you can Google it), I wished that I could have done what he did. And honestly speaking, I applaud him. I can't help it. When Andi was kidnapped, it was such a whirlwind. One second she was there and, the next, the Sheriff was standing there telling me Andi was dead and Karl Roberts was taking the authorities to her body.

That is where faith becomes more than something you say. That is where it becomes something you have to live with. Rubber met the road to a reality no parent should ever have to face.

Scripture says:

“Beloved, do not avenge yourselves, but rather give place to wrath; for it is written, ‘

Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,’ says the Lord.”— Romans 12:19 (NKJV)

Those are not gentle words. They are not easy words. They are a command to release something that feels, at times, impossible to release. Because letting go of vengeance can feel like letting go of justice. But it is not. It is trusting that justice belongs to someone greater than you. And for a very long time, I just wanted Karl Roberts to be killed in the most brutal way ever. I wanted him hanged on the courthouse lawn in a public execution for the whole town to see.

Over the years, I have made a choice—one that I have had to make again and again, sometimes daily, sometimes moment by moment. I have chosen not to let what was done to my daughter define the condition of my heart. I have chosen grace and integrity, not because the situation deserved it, but because I refused to become hardened by it. That choice has taken me places I never could have imagined.

It led me into child advocacy, where I have been able to stand for other children and families walking through unthinkable pain. It led me to meet President George W. Bush and to be part of the effort behind the National Amber Alert system, helping protect children across this country. It opened doors to speak to dignitaries, to share Andi’s story in rooms where decisions are made, and to serve the people of Arkansas in the House of Representatives.

And today, it allows me to walk alongside children in the courtroom with Ari, offering comfort in moments that are often filled with fear and uncertainty. It allows me to take the worst thing that ever happened to me and use it to help someone else breathe through their own. None of that comes from holding onto hatred. None of that comes from feeding anger.

That comes from surrender. Because hatred will take everything from you if you let it. It does not stay contained. It does not stay pointed in one direction. It seeps into everything—your peace, your relationships, your ability to live and love fully.

I had to come to a place where I understood that I could not carry both vengeance and healing at the same time. I could either hold onto my right to hate, or I could be free.

And I chose freedom.

Not because it was easy. Not because it felt fair. But because I trust the One who said that vengeance belongs to Him. God sees what was done. He knows what was taken. And He will judge it rightly, completely, and finally. That is not my burden to carry. So I laid it down.

And as I have walked this road—through grief, through justice, through surrender—I have come to understand something that steadies me in a way nothing else can.

My story with Andi did not end. It changed. Because Jesus Himself said:

“Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”— Matthew 19:14 (NKJV)

That is not just a verse to me. That is a promise. A promise that my daughter, with her sweetness and her laughter and her love for a cat named Peanut Butter and Jelly, was not lost in darkness—but received into the arms of a Savior who loves her even more than I do.

And when King David lost his son, he spoke words that have echoed through generations of grieving parents: “I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.”— 2 Samuel 12:23 (NKJV)

There is a finality in those words, but there is also hope. Because this life is not the end of the story. So while I have had to let go of my right to hate, I have also been given something far greater in return—the assurance that I will see my daughter again. Whole. Restored. Untouched by the brokenness of this world.

And until that day comes, I will continue to live with grace and integrity, to fight for justice where it is mine to fight for, and to trust God with what is not. Because I know where she is. And I know where I am going.

And that changes everything.