One Light Still Shines: My Life Beyond the Shadow of the Amish Schoolhouse Shooting

by Marie Monville

  How grateful I am now, looking back, that my future was hidden from me. At the time, the loss of our baby daughter seemed more than I could bear. How could I have survived the knowledge that the loss of our daughter would one day trigger the unspeakable murders of five little girls?

  Our family rallied to support us, helping to arrange details and cover costs, a huge gift as we weren’t financially prepared or emotionally capable. The presence of Charlie’s parents, filled with compassion, spoke volumes of love. My mom joined Charlie in managing the planning and the countless details. Dad sat with me in silent alliance, held me tightly in strong arms of love as I mourned, and willed strength into his little girl. Charlie and I wept together and alone. I remember looking into his eyes and seeing the same depth of pain I felt. In the earliest days no words were needed between us; we were united in our grief.

  Charlie went back to work within a few days, but I did not. There was no way I could attempt jumping back into “real life,” and since we had been planning for me to be a stay-at-home mom, I embarked on that lifestyle without my child.

  Had Charlie needed more time than he’d taken?

  To say that this season of life was hard for Charlie and me would not really be saying anything at all. Everywhere we looked — church, stores, extended family gatherings — we seemed to be surrounded by couples expecting children of their own, a continual reminder of our loss. Those pregnant bellies shouted Life! in a way that our lives could no longer echo. We were trying to find healing and wholeness in circumstances that weren’t “fixable.”

  The follow-up appointment with my doctor was scheduled on, of all days, my twentieth birthday, December 5. We celebrated Charlie’s twenty-fourth birthday only two days later. The six weeks between Elise’s death and the end of the year were packed full of intensity — Thanksgiving, our birthdays, Christmas. I had to focus deliberately on the most basic tasks of self-care each day. That was about all I could do — just breathe and keep going. Charlie, on the other hand, seemed more able to resume his daily life. I admired his strength and questioned my weakness.

  “Marie, have you and Charlie put up your tree yet?” Mom asked over the phone.

  I replied, “No, Mom, I don’t think we’re going to bother with it this year.” Actually, Charlie and I had avoided talk of holiday celebrations. It felt as if we had nothing to celebrate.

  But my mom knew that Christmas was a treasured holiday for me, and she had decided to do for us what we were incapable of doing on our own. “I thought you might say that. You must have a Christmas tree. Your dad, Vicki, and I will bring you one this Saturday. We’ll help you and Charlie decorate it, and we can order pizza to be delivered for dinner. Sound good? This will be good for you.”

  I knew there was no sense in arguing with her. I had secretly wanted a tree, but it seemed like too much trouble. I wanted it to magically appear. Mom to the rescue.

  Mom, Dad, and my sister, Vicki, arrived late afternoon on Saturday, tree in hand. Dad and Charlie set the tree in the corner, and without slowing down, Dad headed to the basement and started bringing up boxes of Christmas decorations. The hustle and bustle and cheerful dispositions of my parents and sister lightened the heavy air in our house, and before long the five of us were trimming the tree and laughing at the old family stories Mom and Dad told of my siblings and me at Christmas in years gone by. The intervention of my parents warmed our chilled hearts that day.

  “Don’t let yourself get depressed,” a well-meaning friend advised me over the holiday season. I wondered how it was possible not to. I was still supposed to be pregnant, celebrating and enjoying these holidays and special moments leading up to February, when Elise should have been born. I wished I could erase all those hopes and plans that had taken root in my heart and mind.

  Discontent and struggling to find meaning, I soon longed for another baby to fill the gaping hole left by Elise, for an outlet to release this love Charlie and I had stockpiled in anticipation. Charlie agreed.

  Several months went by without a positive pregnancy test. What happened so easily the first time proved elusive now. Watching those around us bring home their long-awaited infants made our unfulfilled yearning more consuming. I battled with God, not understanding the pain and brokenness that lingered, nor why God would allow it.

  One cold winter morning, while praying, I heard him speak to my heart, asking me to demonstrate that I was content with exactly what I had before he gave me anything else. I was sitting Indian-style on the log-cabin quilt on our bed. I thought back over the months I had worked quilting it with ladies in our family and other friends before the wedding. I remembered how we’d gathered at my mom’s house and the hopes and dreams I’d stitched into it and the laughter we had all exchanged, imagining the years to come and the love that would be shared in my own home. Those dreams included children of my own, but now there were none. I felt the frustration of unfulfilled longings.

  “Are you crazy?” I cried to God. “How can I be content with exactly what I have, when I have nothing?”

  The silence cried back to me.

  Nothing? My conscience reeled. Had I really just said that? How could I look at my life and say I had nothing? I knew better. I had a tender husband, loving parents, childhood memories filled with life and beauty, a warm home, food on my table, a church family.

  Humbled, I bowed my head. “God, I yield myself to you in this process of grief. I know you’ve given me much. But losing Elise shattered my heart.” I let the tears come once again. How many tears had I shed these past months?

  “Lord, take these broken shards of my heart. I know I am impatient, but even so I will wait for you to glue them back together.”

  This time of hurting and healing and hurting some more was grueling. Many times I pouted, telling God I wanted out of the pain. Grasping for things to feel good about, I focused on losing weight, and we purchased a new car (not the best idea). Such diversions didn’t work. Nothing we contrived could help me feel better.

  As one who leans toward perfectionism, I was not enjoying my up-and-down journey of self-discovery. I wanted to heal right the first time, arriving at my destination via the most direct route. I found it hard to give myself grace to not perform well, and to celebrate instead small steps of growth, even so small as simply acknowledging when things went “better than last week.”

  Being still didn’t come naturally to me; I liked to “fix” things. But I sensed Jesus asking me to lay aside my Martha disposition in order to choose “the better part” like Mary and sit at his feet (Luke 10:41 – 42).

  “Worship me, Marie,” his Word called to me. “Just worship.” At first it was hard to worship through pain, but slowly I began to come, sit, and worship from my place of broken dreams, my place of doubt and despair. Sometimes I sang out loud, sometimes I sat quietly, focusing my heart on recounting his goodness and allowing it to spill over with gratitude, despite my grief. The voice that “spoke” within me provided guidance in the fertile ground of my surrender, and I felt a new heart-connection with my God like I had never known.

  Winter gave way to spring.

  That summer I spent a lot of time mowing my grandfather’s acreage — a large green canvas upon which I could paint my thoughts. Charlie and I were still living in our first house in Lititz at the time, and the mowing took me back to my hometown of Georgetown, about forty-five minutes south. Returning to the scenery of my childhood brought a fresh whisper of peace. The hours spent bumping along on Grandpa’s lawn tractor proved a perfect setting for worship. The roar of the 48-inch-deck mower provided anonymity for me to sing aloud with abandon. I nearly wore out a Vineyard CD as I listened over and over again to Mark Miller’s lyrics: “I delight in you, Lord; you make my heart jump.” Sometimes I could feel my heart jumping. God was stirring me, lifting settled dreams, bringing them back to the surface.

  I had no inkling that I was mowing the very ground that would one day become my new home with Charlie, a home filled with t
he laughter of three precious children yet to come; no idea that on that very spot there would one day be a porch where I would watch helicopters rushing to the horrific scene of Charlie’s grief and rage unleashed.

  As I write, I am moved beyond words that God chose to make that a place of healing for my first broken heart. He had me cover that very soil with prayers for his presence and peace, with songs of praise, with whispers of his words from Scripture, all falling on that unbroken turf.

  One particular day, as I sang aloud while mowing Grandpa’s acreage, I heard the Lord whisper a name to me: “Abigail.”

  I was so jolted by this strong sensation of hearing God’s voice that I stopped the mower, pulled off my CD headphones, and sat still, bolt upright, straining to listen.

  “Abigail.” It wasn’t an audible voice from the heavens. It was more like an intimate whisper to my soul, and with it this time came instructions. “Look up the meaning in your baby name book.”

  I felt goose bumps from head to toe. Knowing I couldn’t leave the mowing uncompleted, I zoomed over the remaining grass and drove home. I was positive I was not pregnant, yet I felt a sense of holy expectation to discover what God was going to reveal. When I pulled up to our house, I dashed inside, grabbed my Bible and baby name book, sat on the floor of our still partially finished nursery, and turned to the A’s in the baby name book.

  My heart leaped. Abigail was defined as “source of delight.” The book included a reference to Psalm 37:4. My fingers flew through the pages of my Bible to the verse, and I read aloud: “Take delight in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart.” God was giving me a glimpse of his plan, and I absolutely believed I was going to have another baby, a girl named Abigail.

  A rainstorm pelted the roof while I was having this conversation with the Father, and once the rain stopped I rose to gaze out the window. With equal parts disbelief and delight, I beheld a rainbow painted in the sky above. God’s palette stretched vibrantly, declaring that he was, indeed, painting the story of my life. Just as the Lord had covenanted with Noah to preserve life on this earth, he was confirming his promise of new life to me. I took lots of pictures of this affirmation from heaven, eager to document the event for Charlie and to keep them as a reminder of God’s promise for any difficult days ahead. I couldn’t wait for Charlie to get home!

  When Charlie arrived home that night, I had dinner waiting. Hard as it was, I held my surprise until we both sat down and began to eat.

  “Charlie, something happened to me today. Something strange and wonderful.”

  He looked at me with curiosity. “What happened? What do you mean strange?”

  “And wonderful,” I added, not wanting to alarm him. “I hope you won’t think I sound crazy.” I suddenly felt concerned that he’d think I’d lost touch with reality.

  “Marie, you’re the sanest person I know. Now tell me what happened.” He’d put his fork down now and leaned toward me, returning my beaming smile.

  I told him everything, step by step, and stopped when I described the rain pelting the windows. “So I got up off the floor of the nursery” — I reached for my camera and held it up — “and there in the sky I saw a gorgeous rainbow! I took pictures so I can show you. I’ll get them developed right away.”

  Charlie stared at me for a moment, a mix of bewilderment, surprise, and caution on his face. “Wow, Marie. I don’t know what to say.” He paused. “Do you really think God was talking to you, telling you we will have a girl named Abigail?”

  “I do, Charlie.”

  He took my hand in his and squeezed it to reassure me he wasn’t discounting my experience. The caution in his eyes remained.

  “I really do,” I repeated.

  Charlie’s eyes bored into mine as if he were trying to see what I’d seen. His face now looked hopeful yet guarded, and I understood completely. All afternoon I had been praying that God would give Charlie a similar encounter, one that would validate God’s message to me. I’d thought about the way Mary encountered God, when the angel told her that she would give birth to Jesus. And how, afterward, Joseph had his own encounter, and that had settled his heart. I knew that I had met God that day, and I wanted Charlie to meet him too in a similar way. I felt that my healing from grief had advanced significantly because of this promise, because of knowing that God had seen me and had heard every cry and every word of worship that left my lips as I mowed the grass. During all those months of crying out, I’d needed to know God heard my heart. And now I knew. Looking into his gentle eyes, I ached for Charlie to believe in the promise as much as I did.

  “I hope so. I truly hope so.” He placed the fingers of his right hand under my chin tenderly and guided my lips toward his. “I love you, you know,” he said softly, and he kissed me.

  I glowed in the warmth of his kiss, and thought to myself, Kissed by God today and kissed by Charlie.

  The rainbow was a turning point for me. Dawn was breaking.

  I began enjoying life again and finding the purpose and contentment I’d been seeking. Peace settled on me like a thick blanket. I started a part-time job as an administrative assistant for a local manufacturer and stopped “trying” to get pregnant. I had not given up on my dream to have a daughter; I just gave up trying to make it happen. I had my promise from God, and I trusted that he didn’t need help to fulfill it.

  And apparently he didn’t. A few months went by, bringing us to just over a year since we’d conceived Elise. Beginning to suspect that I was pregnant, I secretly bought a pregnancy test. The following Saturday morning, when we woke up, I surprised Charlie by setting a test stick on his pillow.

  His face lit up. “Really?” His eyes searched mine. “Have you taken the test yet?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Let’s do it right now.” I ran to the bathroom and returned a few moments later, stick in hand, and we sat together, holding our breath, and watched it. Like magic, it revealed the answer for which we’d prayed.

  “This is too good to be true,” Charlie said, and he gave me a hug that nearly squeezed the breath out of me. We were both crying, too thrilled to speak for a few moments.

  Over breakfast, we agreed that I’d see the doctor right away, and that we’d tell our parents now, knowing we would need their support on this new journey. We would wait to tell others until we had passed the twelve-week mark.

  As the next few days passed, Charlie and I were joyful yet guarded, trying not to focus on the loss of Elise but telling ourselves that regardless of all else, we needed to trust God. Each morning I awoke filled with delight over the life growing inside me again, only to contend with moments of fear of losing this baby.

  As we crawled into bed one night, I cuddled up to Charlie, laid my head on his chest, and said, “Charlie, I’m struggling with worry. I know God gave me the promise of Abigail, but I can’t help but worry that I might lose this baby like I lost Elise.”

  “You too?” he asked. “Every time I get excited, I tell myself not to get my hopes up. I don’t want us to go through that pain again.”

  I was relieved to hear him talking about his feelings.

  “Whatever we face, we’ll face it together, okay?” I asked. “God will be with us.”

  “You have such strong faith, Marie,” he said. Only later did it occur to me that maybe in that comment he was implying that his own faith was faltering. It didn’t seem so to me at the time. I thought he was just affirming me.

  Within two weeks of discovering our pregnancy, I started having pain on my right side — something like cramping but much more intense. And I felt sick, as if I had a stomach bug. I made an immediate appointment with my family doctor. He thought it was just a virus and sent me home.

  At work the next afternoon, I felt a piercing pain and almost passed out. I went home and climbed in bed, knowing something was wrong. Because there was no bleeding, I remained hopeful that my symptoms weren’t related to my pregnancy.

  Over the next couple of days the pain came a
nd went. My family doctor continued to advise that I should rest and stay hydrated.

  Two days later, I started bleeding. My hopes sank. Was this the beginning of the end? I called my ob-gyn. When I described the symptoms I’d had earlier that week, this doctor felt certain that the baby was growing inside one of my fallopian tubes. She ordered some tests.

  “I’m so sorry,” the doctor began, when the test results were in. I was sitting on the examination table with Charlie standing by my side. He squeezed my hand, but our eyes were on the doctor.

  “You have an ectopic pregnancy,” she explained. “Your baby is growing in one of your fallopian tubes instead of the uterus. It can’t survive there. You’re starting to lose the baby. You also have a cyst on one ovary, and another cyst that has already ruptured, which probably caused the intense pain you experienced a few days ago. We’ll need to watch you closely over the next few weeks to see if you’ll require surgery.”

  I started to cry. As Charlie turned to me, I saw on his face fear, worry for me, and his disappointment over losing our second child, all reflecting my own thoughts and feelings. The weight of his grief added to my own, and I could see that the same was true for Charlie. How hard it is to comfort one another when the pain we see in the other’s eyes increases the burden for both.

  “Is Marie in any danger?” Charlie asked the doctor. I sensed his anxiety.

  “We’ll keep a close eye and repeat ultrasounds and blood work frequently. If you suffer any sudden pain, dizziness, or fainting, don’t hesitate to call. But right now I’m not seeing signs of danger.”

  Charlie didn’t look reassured.

  We drove home in silence and tears. What was left to say? The next day we chose to name our precious unborn child Isabella, meaning “consecrated to God.” She was in his arms now, having never passed through ours.

  Part of me was frustrated with myself. Why had I once again allowed the joy and excitement of new life to take hold, only to be faced with the pall of death all over again? Charlie was mostly quiet, except for his frequent inquiries of how I was feeling. But when I would voice my own feelings, he confessed he felt the same.