Gabby Petito’s mother surprises crowd by forgiving Brian Laundrie, denouncing his mother

The mother of Gabby Petito, the 22-year-old who lost her life at the hands of confessed murderer Brian Laundrie, said at a conference Friday that she had forgiven her daughter’s killer — but not his mom.

“I speak for myself here when I say Brian, I forgive you,” Nichole Schmidt said to a crowd at CrimeCon 2024 in Nashville, according to Fox News. “I needed to release myself from the chains of anger and bitterness, and I refuse to let your despicable act define the rest of my life.”

Someone once said that harboring unforgiveness is like drinking poison and expecting the person you’re still mad at to die; Schmidt appears to understand that.

Or maybe she doesn’t. Because she’s apparently willing to let the actions of Laundrie’s mom “define the rest of [her] life.”

“You do not deserve forgiveness,” Schmidt said of Roberta Laundrie. “You deserve to be forgotten.”

“As for you, Roberta, and I call you out individually because you are evidently the mastermind that shattered your family and mine with your evil ways, I see no empathy in your eyes,” Schmidt said, according to Fox. “No remorse in your heart and no willingness to take responsibility for your actions.”

That, of course, is not how forgiveness works — but I’ll get to that in a second.

I cannot for a moment blame Schmidt for her feelings of anger, resentment, sorrow and loss. I’ve never lost anyone I care about to murder, and can only imagine how overwhelming those feelings must be.

The fact that Laundrie had concerns about Schmidt’s welfare after “erratic phone calls” with her son, according to Fox, must only make that worse.

Schmidt and her ex-husband, Joe Petito, settled a suit with Laundrie’s parents last year, in which they claimed that the defendants knew about Gabby Petito’s murder and helped their son escape justice for his actions.

Which, ironically, is what Schmidt went on to do herself — help Brian Laundrie escape justice. Because that’s what forgiveness is.

We can only forgive someone when they owe us something — a financial debt can be forgiven, of course, but so can a moral debt. When I wrong someone — by murdering a mother’s daughter, say, although that’s obviously an extreme example — I now owe a debt to that mother for what I did to her.

Only then can I be forgiven. Only when I in fact owe something. Not because I “deserve” forgiveness — forgiveness only means something if I don’t deserve it. If I owe you no debt, your forgiveness means literally nothing.

Schmidt forgave Brian Laundrie, though he didn’t deserve it — that’s how forgiveness works. Schmidt refuses to forgive Roberta Laundrie, because she doesn’t deserve it. That’s not how forgiveness works.

Schmidt is absolutely correct that Roberta Laundrie doesn’t deserve her forgiveness. But if she did deserve it, she wouldn’t need it.

We live in a similar tension with God Almighty. We need forgiveness, but can never deserve it. Justice, in fact, demands that we pay for our sins. That’s why Paul wrote in Romans 5:8, “God shows His love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”

That’s love, all right — dying for those who could never earn or deserve that death. Paying our penalty so that justice can be served — served out painfully on the body of Jesus Himself — and forgiveness purchased by His blood.

And now we’re all called to do the same — to forgive those who don’t deserve it: “Blessed are the merciful,” Jesus said, “for they shall receive mercy.”

And none of us deserve it. Not Brian Laundrie. Not his mother. Not even Nichole Schmidt. Not me. Not you. None of us.

I pray that Nichole Schmidt can find the grace — for it can only happen by God’s grace — to forgive Roberta Laundrie. Just as I pray that she will find the grace to seek God’s forgiveness for her own sins.

Just as I pray that I would accept God’s grace in my own life, face my sins instead of denying them or explaining them away, and seek forgiveness and mercy in Christ.

That would be a good way for Schmidt — and me, and you, my friend — to define the rest of our lives.