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

by Marie Monville

  But as I prayed over the next few days, I found myself increasingly thankful that I had spent every possible moment rejoicing and believing in the promise my Father had given concerning Abigail. I realized I still believed that promise would be fulfilled.

  When I told Charlie what I was thinking, he shook his head. “I don’t understand your confidence in that, Marie. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking.”

  Though Charlie seemed mystified by my confidence in God’s promise, my hope was not dimmed. And I could see that Charlie’s worry for me was overshadowing his other emotions.

  The next couple of weeks were a blur of doctor visits, blood work, and ultrasounds. Even though my baby had died, it was still lodged within my fallopian tube. We prayed for a miraculous touch from God.

  With one more day and one more test before being scheduled for surgery, we returned to the office. “I’ve got some good news for you this time,” the doctor reported. “Everything is unexpectedly clear. Your body has cleared the fallopian tube as I’d hoped. You won’t need surgery.”

  Charlie beamed, relief obviously washing over him. He leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

  While it was indeed great news that I wouldn’t need surgery, I could not escape the sadness that all traces of my second child were now gone.

  I revised my identity: mother of two babies in heaven … wife of Charlie on earth … and mother of Abigail yet to come.

  My doctor explained that with the scar tissue inside one of my fallopian tubes, it would be more difficult or maybe impossible for an egg to pass through that tube, reducing my ability to conceive to only half that of a normal person. While I respected the doctor’s opinion, it didn’t shake my confidence in God’s promise. I knew I was going to hold Abigail in my arms one day.

  “I’m afraid to hope for that,” was Charlie’s reply.

  For me, the intensity of my second loss was not as overwhelming as it had been with Elise ten months earlier. The searching and struggling I had come through in the past year had increased my capacity for faith and trust. “Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see” (Hebrews 11:1). I was determined not to lose forward motion in my healing journey. I had learned I could walk through grief and find God with me. I had discovered that even in darkness I could praise. I had seen God take the shards of my shattered heart and begin to craft a mosaic out of them, a new heart that incorporated the broken pieces, using each one, none gone to waste.

  With every ounce of my being, I clung to God’s promise of a daughter named Abigail — a promise sealed with a rainbow.

  In the weeks that followed, Charlie and I celebrated our second anniversary, Elise’s first birthday, Thanksgiving, and then our birthdays in early December. The fall and winter holidays, time traditionally set aside to gather with family and celebrate the goodness of the year, were now marred by substantial loss. Still, I was thankful for the brilliance of God’s love expressed in tangible ways, in the form of our love for one another and our loving parents and family.

  “Charlie,” I said one night over dinner, “on my last trip to the doctor’s office they gave me this list of local support groups for parents who’ve lost children through miscarriage and stillbirth. I was thinking it might be helpful. Would you like to go with me?”

  He didn’t look up at first. He sipped his tea, clearly thinking, but he seemed uncomfortable. “I don’t think so. Why don’t you go without me.”

  “I just thought it might help both of us. I’ve got my mom and Aunt Linda to talk to. And you know how I talk to God all the time and feel like he’s really healing me. But you don’t have anyone to talk to.”

  “I don’t need to talk about it,” he answered matter-of-factly, though not unkindly. “I know you do, but that’s not my way. It is what it is. A group isn’t for me.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll check it out.” I was disappointed. I wanted to draw closer as we healed. But even I had to admit that it was hard to picture Charlie feeling comfortable with a group of strangers discussing feelings. Maybe it wasn’t for him.

  While I was still standing in faith and believing for a daughter named Abigail, I also still had resurgences of emotional pain and perplexity, but as I worshiped through my pain and recalled God’s promise, the screams of doubt would be silenced. And so I embraced the occasional sadness, knowing that as I was open and honest with God, he would somehow reach down and continue to heal my wounded heart. Over time, his love would infiltrate my emptiness, and his life would saturate my barrenness.

  I was beginning to accept God’s decisions over my life without fighting, and in this way I found joy again. Charlie, on the other hand, continued to be reserved about his feelings toward our losses, although he seemed to be reaching for the hope I was feeling.

  I assumed that over time he would track with me — an assumption that could not have been more wrong.

  “Mommy, come see what the neighbors brought!” Abigail called as she climbed the stairs at Aunt Linda’s to get me. It was mid-morning on Wednesday, I was upstairs. After folding the laundry I’d decided to read my Bible. It had been a quiet morning so far, but I was soon to discover it would be another day of ups and downs and ups again, not unlike the emotional journey I’d been remembering last night.

  Abigail looked a little brighter this morning. Not quite cheerful, but with more expression on her face and in her voice. I’d heard the doorbell awhile back, but since no one had come to get me, I’d assumed that whoever it was didn’t need me. Now I realized from Abigail’s exclamation that it had been one of Linda’s neighbors.

  “Okay, I’ll follow you,” I said. “Where are your brothers?” I put aside my Bible and stood.

  “They’re already playing with the new stuff.”

  “What new stuff?”

  “You’ll see, Mommy.”

  Downstairs in the living room, I saw Bryce and my dad sitting on the floor, spreading out the pieces of a brand-new puzzle with large pieces perfect for my five-year-old son. Mom and Carson were hitting a big red balloon around the living room.

  “Whatcha working on, Bryce?” I asked.

  “Some of Aunt Linda’s neighbors brought a bunch of cool stuff. This puzzle, balloons, coloring books. It’s in that box over there.” He pointed to the corner.

  “And sidewalk chalk too,” Abigail announced brightly. “Aunt Linda said she’d draw with me out front when she finishes putting all the food away.”

  “What food?” I asked.

  “Brownies!” squealed Carson. Leaving the red balloon to fall where it may, he took my hand and led me to the kitchen.

  “What’s all this?” I asked of no one in particular. Linda and Jim had the refrigerator open and seemed to have it half emptied out, with Tupperware, covered dishes, and containers filled with food covering her considerable stretch of kitchen counter.

  “This,” Linda answered, her head in the fridge, “is the abundance of good friends and neighbors. I’m just trying to find a place to fit it all in until lunchtime.” Linda’s neighbors, still keeping our whereabouts a secret, had dropped off two platters of meats and cheeses for lunch, a bowl of fruit, brownies, and covered dishes of a mystery dinner. As the week progressed, they and other friends and family would quietly slip in and out, bringing a steady stream of breads, cheeses, meats, desserts, fruits, and beverages.

  “One thing’s for sure,” Uncle Jim said, just before popping a brownie in his mouth. “We’ll have plenty to share with everyone who drops in this week.”

  “No brownies before lunch, Jim,” Linda chided him, too late.

  “Can I have a brownie?” Bryce and Abigail asked in unison, having followed us into the kitchen.

  “Me too!” Carson cried.

  Linda looked pointedly at Jim with her “now see what you’ve done” look.

  Jim looked at me for approval, and I gave a slight nod. “One small brownie for each of you,” Uncle Jim said. “Then nothing else until lunch. Go sit at
the table, and I’ll bring them out to you.”

  The kids raced for the dining room. I smiled for what may have been the first time in two days.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  “Don’t any of you answer it,” Linda said. “It may be a reporter.”

  She was right.

  “Good morning, ma’am. I understand you’re related in some way to the Roberts family?” I could just barely hear the man’s voice from the kitchen because Linda had barely cracked open the door so he couldn’t see in. Still, she told us later, he was craning his neck, trying to see around her.

  “Who would you be?” Linda asked firmly.

  “I’m just trying to reach the Roberts family.” He avoided her question.

  Linda would have none of that. “Are you a reporter?” she demanded. I had no trouble hearing her voice.

  “Yes, ma’am, just trying to —” But he didn’t get to finish his sentence.

  “I have no comment. Kindly do not return.” I heard the door firmly close. Aunt Linda, I could see, was as strong a guard as my big brother, Ken.

  Shortly before lunch, a representative from a local bank came to visit us, bringing with her the softest stuffed animals I’d ever touched and a stack of cards from the bank staff and customers, containing messages of compassion and hope that warmed my heart. She’d called ahead and Dad had agreed to an appointment with me. We sat in the lovely seating area adjacent to the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Roberts, I have something else for you.”

  I wondered what it could be. I was already moved by the gifts and cards she’d brought.

  “A trust fund has been established for your children at our bank. All the funds have been donated. Nothing is required of you but a signature on a few forms, and there’s no rush on that. It can wait until you find the time. We just wanted to let you know, hoping that it would relieve any financial fears you might be feeling for their futures.”

  Her words stunned me. I was speechless. A wave of awe washed over me. I had nothing to offer except two very small, inadequate words: “Thank you.”

  I could trust God to act above and beyond my imagination. Our lives would no longer be the solid piece of glass we’d known. He was already picking up each broken piece and reassembling the fragments into a beautiful mosaic. This gift was his deposit for our mosaic, a precious gemstone.

  After she left, I went back up to the sitting room and closed the door. There, I wept. The floodgates opened once again, and for a few minutes I couldn’t stop crying. I cried for God’s goodness and I cried because I wanted to go running to Charlie to tell him what the Lord had just done for our kids. I cried for the memories of God’s healing in the wake of losing Elise and Isabella, and I cried because Charlie hadn’t felt God’s healing as I had. I cried for my children, for the ways God was providing them shelter and love through family and friends, and for the milestones ahead of them where the absence of their father would leave an open wound. I cried for the dread of the afternoon ahead of me at the funeral home.

  Every tear I cried, those of sadness and those of gratitude, I offered up to God, confident that he was catching each one. He would save them all. They were needed. Because mosaics are made not only with broken bits of tile and gems, precious metals and broken glass. Until there is a moist bed of clay in which to set the many pieces, the artist cannot create his masterpiece.

  With my tears, the Artist was making the clay for his masterpiece.

  8

  the holy exchange

  Charlie’s dad, Chuck, pulled up in front of my aunt’s house shortly after lunch on Wednesday. He’d offered to drive me to the funeral home, where we would meet Terri, Charlie’s mom. My dad and mom talked to him quietly in the living room while I hugged my children goodbye.

  “I’ll only be gone a few hours,” I told them in the midst of lingering hugs that neither they nor I seemed to want to let go of. This would be the first time we’d been separated since the shooting, and my “hovering” instinct was in high gear.

  The forty-minute drive to the funeral home felt surreal. We’d spoken on the phone earlier in the week, but now that I was seeing Chuck for the first time since the day of the shooting, the heaviness of grief on his face sent new waves of sorrow through my heart.

  I tried to control my feelings of nausea at the thought of the funeral home. At the thought of what I was going to do in the next few hours, my mind screamed, Run away! Run away! Yet we were inching closer and closer to the unavoidable.

  “A call came from a local pastor yesterday that left me speechless,” I told Chuck, thankful that I had some good news to share with him during the ride. “He wanted me to know that their congregation is praying for us and felt moved by God to show their support in some tangible way.”

  I paused to maintain emotional control, afraid that if I lost it now I’d be unable to regain my composure before we arrived at the funeral home, and I desperately wanted to keep under control there.

  I continued. “They’ve offered to cover the full costs of the funeral, Dad. They encouraged me to make whatever arrangements we’d like, and the pastor has already called the funeral home to arrange for the billing. Do you believe it?”

  I could see how overwhelmed he felt.

  The call from the church had shocked me. Had they not given me such an unimaginable blessing, my reality would have been bleak. In addition to the horrific circumstances of Charlie’s death, I would have faced the struggle to afford the cost of surrendering his body to the earth — a cost I could not pay. First the trust fund for my children, now this. God had touched human hearts, and they had responded, giving me his mercy and his provision. I will be eternally grateful.

  Other than my forays into Linda’s backyard, I had been inside for two days, so I tried to enjoy the familiar countryside of rolling hills dotted with red barns and white silos, but the windmills that marked Amish farms brought fresh waves of grief. Between our long silences, we talked about the amazing outpouring of love and support from the community. He and Terri were experiencing it as well. As we neared the funeral home, I silently prayed for the Lord to replace my anxiety with the awe I’d felt when I heard of the trust fund and the covering of the funeral costs. I longed to exchange all that was negative for all that was good.

  As we stepped into the funeral home, I took a few deep breaths to calm my queasiness. Terri arrived just a few moments later. The avalanche of emotion felt crushing.

  We agreed to a closed-casket funeral service to be held on Saturday, which would allow enough time for the families of the victims to have their services first. The burial would be held at the small cemetery behind Georgetown United Methodist, directly adjacent to my grandpa’s property — a part of the landscape of my life since the day I’d been born. After choosing the casket and discussing the service, the director offered us the opportunity to view the body, but I declined. I wanted to remember Charlie as he’d lived, rather than have my mind seared by the image of him in death.

  For the closing music I chose a song that had been the melody of heaven for me ever since the day of the tragedy: “All I Want” by Jeff Deyo. Music had been my lifeline since childhood, a place of reflection and worship, my secret place with Jesus, the atmosphere where I felt his Spirit speak to mine. I’d sung this song over and over in the last two days in my mind and sometimes out loud in a solitary moment. It spoke to me of complete restoration.

  I come, with a heart that is desperate

  And I cry, wanting just to be heard by You

  And I pray, that You won’t remain silent

  That You’ll stand here beside me

  That my heart won’t call out in vain

  ‘Cause all I want is just to see You, Jesus

  And I long, just to hear Your voice

  And I need, just to be near You

  ‘Cause Your presence is all I want

  “All I Want” by Jeff Deyo, copyright © 2002 Universal Music—Brentwood Benson Publishing (ASCAP)/Worship City M
usic (ASCAP). All rights for the world on behalf of Worship City Music administered by Universal Music—Brentwood Benson Publishing. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  Each time I’d sung it this week, as I asked Jesus answered, and as I cried he comforted. Considering how much I dreaded the funeral, I knew that I would need to rest in that song at its end. It would be my anthem, my light at the end of the tunnel. Jesus would be there to strengthen me in the end.

  “One last thing before you go,” the funeral director said. “Wait here — I’ll be right back.” He stepped away for a few moments, then returned with a small box. “Since you’ve decided to have a closed casket,” he said, holding it out, “I thought you might like to take this with you now.”

  He pressed the small box ever so gently into the palm of my hand. I lifted the lid.

  Charlie’s wedding band.

  Tears sprang to my eyes. I lifted the ring and looked inside for the inscription. Our Promise. I slid his ring onto my finger and we left.

  Back at Aunt Linda’s home, the warmth of family greeted me. The aroma of dinner in the oven came wafting through the living room, carrying peace right to my core. It was as though the difficulties of the previous hours were forbidden to enter the graciousness of the home. The windows were open, and I tuned in to the sounds of life — my children playing in the backyard, neighbors chatting, the faint hum of a lawn mower in the distance. The neighbors were succeeding at keeping us well fed; a variety of delectable choices graced the table, the most difficult decision being, once again, how to fit all the leftovers into the refrigerator!

  I still can’t imagine how Aunt Linda and Uncle Jim pulled it off, but in spite of all the comings and goings with the overflowing plenty of food, supplies, and gifts, the house remained calm and peaceful. No television, no radio, no newspapers or magazines entered my line of vision all week. My dad and uncle took the kids to the park just down the street at least once a day — with no one there aware of who these kids were — and played with them in the sanctuary of the shrub-screened backyard. Watching my children being loved on by the men in our family in the absence of their father was a stunning visual assurance to me of God’s protective care. We were cocooned in his love.