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

by Marie Monville

  After dinner I played in the backyard with the children. We tossed a new ball, yet another gift from a neighbor.

  Exhausted by the emotion of the day, I had my eye on Linda’s garden bench. “You guys keep playing,” I said. “I’ll be right over here on the bench.”

  I tried to drink in the colors. The grief of the funeral home exchanged for the peace of this shelter — the contrast was startling. I twirled Charlie’s wedding band on my finger. Our Promise. Our broken promise, I thought with a burst of pain.

  Lord, the color of my life has been drained. I’m empty. How quickly our hearts can plummet from moments of grace to deep despair. I felt stripped bare, like a young tree once full of tender shoots but now dismantled, branches and bark torn away. Only the ravaged trunk remained, struggling to remain upright. The image of my nakedness and seeping wounds brought to the surface an ache I’d kept repressed all afternoon. Quench my thirst, I prayed. The heat of this day has left me parched, and my heart is dry and cracked with crevices I cannot mend. I have nothing left to give, and yet I must be prepared to do it all again tomorrow. Help me, Father. I can’t do this alone.

  He whispered back, Trust, open, yield, surrender to a new depth, give me more of you. You know only limitations — I am limitless.

  Sleep, once again, did not come easily that night. By now I’d barely slept in days. My trip to the funeral home had stirred up memories of losing Elise, a time when my hopes and dreams were completely swallowed up. After we lost our daughter, during long sleepless nights I would place my hand where she should be, only to find the emptiness of loss all over again. Now, years later, my mind lingered in the past, calling me to grieve anew for a loss I’d thought was healed.

  Had Charlie struggled with such thoughts yet, in an attempt to spare me, kept them to himself? I didn’t know.

  In the wee hours of the morning, my thoughts turned to the Amish families. In their sleepless moments between twilight and dawn, how were they coping? Surely, like me, they faced the crushing reality of loss all over again as they grieved that the daughters they had embraced Monday morning were now beyond their reach. I had no idea how God would accomplish their healing. Yet no one but God was orchestrating the generosity coming our way, as people around us stepped in and stepped up, not shrinking back, but rising to the challenge. Our community — friends and strangers — had crawled into the chasm with us to help us with the long climb out. I hoped the world was responding to the suffering of the Amish families in even greater ways.

  What I didn’t know that sleepless night — due to my seclusion from the media — was that the generous grace that the Amish had extended to us, Charlie’s family, had caught the attention of the world. As I dozed and tossed and turned, their act of grace was rippling around the nation and throughout the globe, bearing witness to the God who is, himself, grace.

  Thursday morning dawned foggy and dreary, and I missed the cheerful morning light of yesterday. Finally tearing myself away from the comfort of the bed, I headed downstairs to have breakfast with my parents before they left the house.

  “Please tell the families that I continue to pray for them,” I told my mom as she and my dad prepared to leave. Two Amish families had invited my parents to the funerals of their daughters, both held that day. My parents knew these families from years of visits picking up milk from their farms.

  “You know we will,” Mom said. “And don’t worry about the meetings at school. We’ll get everything worked out.”

  My parents had an appointment that day at my children’s school, in my place, to prepare the way for Abigail and Bryce to return the following week. I was grateful. I didn’t have the emotional energy for a meeting with school staff.

  The house seemed quiet in their absence. It was the first time they’d both been gone at the same time since we’d arrived. Their absence made me realize how much their presence had been giving me comfort and strength all week. I heard Carson calling for me upstairs and silently prayed as I climbed the stairs, Help me — I’m a single mom now. Be their daddy, Lord. They won’t have their father to lean on like I’ve still got mine.

  Later that day, the doorbell rang, and once more I ushered the detectives upstairs to what had become our usual spot.

  “So the service will be at High View Church of God, followed by a drive to the cemetery behind Georgetown United Methodist. Is that correct?” a detective asked.

  I nodded.

  “Rest assured, we will block off all road access to the church in Ronks, and to the entire town of Georgetown for the graveside ceremony, since that town is so small. That way we can avoid having the church and cemetery overrun by media vans and satellite dishes. We’ll set up police checkpoints, and any non-Amish will have to show their ID before being allowed to pass.”

  I was grateful but a little rattled at the extremes they were going to for security. How bad were they expecting this to be? A sense of nauseating dread washed over me. Was the world angry with me or resentful that Charlie’s children were alive while Amish children were dead? Were the police concerned about protests? Retaliation?

  The detectives must have seen the worry on my face. “Mrs. Roberts, I’m not sure you’ve heard how fascinated the world is with the story of forgiveness in the wake of this shooting.”

  What? No, I didn’t realize it. How could I, secluded from all media? Were they saying that it was the miracle of forgiveness that was drawing the media frenzy?

  After the detectives left, I allowed myself to revisit favorite memories of Charlie. If, before this week, I’d heard of such a shooting, I would have thought that only a monster could do such a thing. Somehow I had to reconcile that with what I knew of Charlie: that the man I’d spent my life with was no monster. Revisiting good memories not only helped me, they were necessary for my children. I wanted Abigail and Bryce to remember their daddy building sand castles and splashing through the waves as he chased them on the beach during a family vacation, and I wanted Carson to learn through such stories what his daddy had been like.

  Our extended family had always enjoyed making memories together, celebrating birthdays, holidays, and everything in between. In the summer months, and guaranteed on Independence Day, my dad would make his special, hand-cranked ice cream. My mom mixed the cream, milk, and flavorings, and my dad did the rest. He preferred his old-fashioned freezer to anything electric. He would sit on the driveway for over an hour, sweatband collecting beads of perspiration upon his forehead. Slow and steady, he would turn the crank arm, adding ice and sprinkling salt as needed. Charlie would jump in, taking his turn and giving my dad a break. As we ate the fruit of their labor, Charlie would entertain us with fireworks. He loved lighting them as the children cheered.

  My family loved Charlie. He’d been part of the fabric of our lives for thirteen years. We all simply “did life” together — parents, siblings, aunts and uncles, cousins, and grandparents. Charlie was quick to offer help anytime and loved the banter of family conversations and playing with the kids. Whether it was tackling a household chore with the kids or helping my dad with a construction project, Charlie was a patient teacher or handy sidekick, knowing just how to match himself to someone’s personality. He had a quiet way of reaching into another’s circumstances and being just what they needed in that moment.

  The man who’d committed the shooting was not the man we knew, loved, and trusted. At the funeral on Saturday, we would celebrate the man we all remembered.

  “I was thinking today about some of my favorite memories of Daddy,” I told the kids later that day. “Do you know what I remembered?”

  I was sitting Indian-style on the living room floor, helping Carson build a tower with blocks. Abigail and Bryce were stretched out on the floor next to me, coloring in the brand-new coloring books that had arrived in a basket of goodies from a friend that day.

  “What?” Abigail said.

  “Well, when Daddy and I were dating, and I was still living with Grandma and Grandpa Welk, w
e had a big German shepherd named Jake. Jake loved our family and was the world’s best watchdog. Anytime someone came to our door, Jake’s deep growl would start, and he’d run to the door and bark and bark like he was going to eat them alive. People would step back, afraid, and Jake would bark even louder.”

  “Like Dale!” Bryce said, referring to our yellow lab who’d been staying at my sister’s home all week.

  “Oh, he sounded much meaner than Dale does,” I said. “Dale’s barks are almost friendly, and he wags his tail because he likes meeting new people. Not Jake. Jake was ferocious to strangers who came to the door.”

  “Grrr,” Carson growled.

  “So the very first time your daddy came to visit me at my house, Jake ran to the door, barking and howling. Do you know what your daddy did?”

  “What?” they asked in unison.

  “He stepped toward Jake instead of away, and he said, ‘Hey there, boy. You’re a big fella,’ and within minutes he was scratching Jake behind the ears and tossing him his favorite chew toy.”

  “He wasn’t afraid?” asked Abigail.

  “Not even a little bit,” I said. “Your dad loved dogs and dogs loved him.”

  “From that day on, when Jake heard your dad at the door, Jake was so excited to see him that he’d leap over the couch and bound to the door, his tail wagging, his tongue hanging out. He couldn’t wait to play with your dad.”

  “Yeah,” Bryce said, “dogs love our daddy.”

  “And we loved Daddy too, and he loved us. Bryce, what’s one of your favorite memories with Daddy?”

  Bryce didn’t hesitate. “Wrestling together! And it always turned into tickling time. Daddy had a funny laugh.”

  Abigail and Carson nodded. Then Abigail spoke up. “My favorite memory is shopping with Daddy at the Amish store. He always let me pick out a candy. And he’d take me to the book rack near the register and let me look at books.”

  “Daddy always loved to take you shopping. He loved all of us very much. I’m really sad that Daddy’s gone, but it helps to remember special times, doesn’t it?”

  I stood, thinking I’d spent enough time on the topic for now. The counselors had recommended brief, natural conversations, then moving on to something fun. “Who wants to play ball with me out back?” I said.

  “Me, me, me!” my kids called as they followed me to the back door.

  But pleasant memories of Daddy weren’t the only topic of conversation with the kids that painful week. I also had, in quiet moments with each of the children, conversations that I did not want to have — about the way their father died, the girls who were shot, and the wrong decisions he’d made because of a deep hurt in his heart. I assured each of them that their daddy’s act in no way had any connection with anything they’d ever said or done. I bathed each exchange in prayer, explored their understanding, answered their questions, and reassured them of their safety. I needed to help them understand that God’s love did not mean he would keep us from walking through painful times. It meant that he would walk with us through painful times. I explained that it was okay to be sad and that slowly, over time, God would exchange our sadness for joy.

  And while I reassured them, God reassured me.

  After the kids were sound asleep, I went downstairs. Linda and Jim were with my parents in the kitchen, getting a bit of dessert and chatting. After years of quiet evenings while Charlie ran his night route, I wasn’t used to company in the evening, so I loved this time.

  “Dad and I had to drive through three police checkpoints today on our way to the funerals,” Mom said. They had been back to Nickel Mines and Georgetown and had seen firsthand what I could only imagine: our obscure town had come under a national spotlight.

  “The detectives told me it will be the same for Charlie’s funeral,” I said. “Were there a lot of reporters around Georgetown today?”

  Linda said, “Yes, but it’s different than you might think, Marie. Instead of focusing mainly on Charlie’s actions and motives and the grief of the community, the world has been captivated by the Amish people and their immediate forgiveness of Charlie, and the way they’ve reached out to his parents and your family. That’s what people are talking about — TV and radio talk shows, newspapers, online.”

  Mom’s eyes were soft as she began to speak. “God is doing something. And not just here — it’s touching people all over. This response from the Amish challenges people. It challenges me, all of us, to extend forgiveness to one another. People are amazed. They’re asking how the Amish have been able to forgive. What an opportunity for the gospel to be in the spotlight. God is moving.”

  I sat quietly, trying to absorb that the world was being stopped in its tracks by the grace-filled response of the Amish community. The ones whose daughters had been taken by death were beaming radiant life not just to our family, not just to the community, but across the globe. My spirit lifted.

  “Oh, I wanted to tell you all what happened to us this morning,” Mom said. “You know that dense gray mist hovering here when we left this morning? Just as we reached the highway, the clouds suddenly parted and these incredibly radiant sunbeams pierced right through the clouds with a brilliant light. The landscape around us had been completely hidden, but when the light beams appeared through the lingering mist everything glistened. Marie, you should have seen it! It took our breath away.”

  “That sounds so beautiful, Mom. I wish I’d seen it,” I said, picturing the scene.

  “I said to your dad, ‘I can’t wait until God does something grand in this situation, just as he lit up this sky and burned away that bleak fog.’”

  When I heard the expectancy in Mom’s voice, it occurred to me that my own expectations for the week had been bleak. I just wanted the entire ordeal to be over. I hadn’t been looking forward to the new things God was going to do. I’d just been in survival mode, groping for God’s help to cope, rather than living in expectancy of what great things he might do.

  Mom’s words rang in my ears: “I can’t wait …” Her encounter with the sunbeams reminded me of my encounter with the rainbow years ago, and of how my anticipation of God fulfilling his promise of Abigail had filled me with joy and sustained me through the loss of Isabella. Maybe I was missing an opportunity to worship God in a spirit of expectancy this week.

  When I finally crawled into bed that night, though I had no emotion of anticipation, I closed my eyes, willing to yield myself to this Holy Exchange — my nothing for his everything. All God required of me was to trust.

  “Father of Light, stir my faith with expectancy of great things from you, even in this utter darkness.”

  I don’t know exactly how it happened — not all in a moment that can be identified — but as I look back now I see that as I kept reaching, so did my Lord. As I reached up to the Lord, he reached way down deep inside of me, and bit by bit exchanged my despair for faithful expectation.

  This swap, completely unmerited by me, revealed to me God’s nature as my loving Father. Even when I was wounded and unable to see who he truly is, his goodness was not confined by my limitations. Even when I was blinded by the darkness of grief, his light still shone.

  We so seldom see the present in light of the future. Thankfully, our Creator does. He is constantly creating us with the future in mind. I would never that day have dared to dream a dream as big as what God had in store for me yet that week. God is so much bigger than our dreams.

  9

  the wait

  My memories of much of that week are a blur, and over the final couple of days, I remember little of the daylight hours. It’s the nights I remember — the interminable nights of lying sleeplessly in bed as my mind ranged far and wide and the hands of the clock refused to move. During those silent, timeless nights, my sleeping children breathing peacefully at my side, I did the only things I could do. I thought. I prayed. I remembered.

  I waited.

  In the silence of Friday’s early morning hours, I crept out of bed and d
own to the kitchen. It was only 2:00 a.m., at least four hours before the sun would rise, but I’d tossed and turned long enough waiting for dawn. I’d been thinking about the first responders and felt something stirring in my heart.

  Aunt Linda had created a gift basket of some items she’d thought I might need this week, among them some lovely stationery and pens. I fixed myself a hot herbal tea, a fruity blend, and arranged myself at the large kitchen island.

  I began my letter to the firefighters who’d worked heroically to save the lives of the innocent girls and so tenderly cared for the bodies of the girls already lost. I wrote how sorry I was for what they had seen, and though I couldn’t imagine what they’d experienced that day, I told them I was sorry for the difficulty they must be facing in putting those images out of their minds. I told them they were heroes with servants’ hearts. I signed the letter and began my next, this one to some neighbors who had reached out to meet our needs.

  I realized that I was writing for my own benefit as much as for others’, because I had no way to repay them for their sacrifice. I ached to do something for what Charlie had done, and I prayed with expectancy that God would work in each life of those who’d served with such kindness. This seemed a much more productive way to pass the minutes and felt far more useful than endlessly waiting for dawn to come.

  After a few letters, I stood to stretch and felt drawn to the door leading down to Linda’s art studio in their lower level. My children had told me that while I’d been with the detectives yesterday, Aunt Linda had given them “art lessons.” As I went down the steep staircase, the scents of the art studio — paint and paper and linseed oil — rose to greet me, carrying with them pleasant memories of my healing days here after Elise.