One Light Still Shines: My Life Beyond the Shadow of the Amish Schoolhouse Shooting (23 page)

We all love “happily ever after” endings. God’s love story written for all who believe in Jesus Christ promises exactly that, but not until we stand face-to-face with him in heaven. Until then, God continues to write new chapters. How easy it is for us to get caught up in our present, expecting our “now” to be the fulfillment of all we’ve hoped for.

Walking down the aisle to blend two families into one on our wedding day wasn’t the close of my story. It was the opening of a new chapter. I loved the insight that God instilled in me in the week following the shooting — that he is always creating us with the future in mind. What, then, did my future hold?

What I didn’t yet know was that God had so transformed me through the experiences of the previous months and so reshaped my understanding of who I am that I would emerge with a new vision for my life. God was in no hurry to whisk me to that point, however. He knew I needed time to rest in the joy of my new family.

In the first months of our marriage, Dan and I focused on creating a nurturing and secure home life where all of us could continue to heal and bond. We jumped into the challenges normal
families face: balancing schedules and activities, accomplishing household responsibilities, and finding time to develop our relationship as husband and wife — dating in the midst of five kids. We gladly laughed ourselves through it. It was surprisingly easy to weather the adjustments of blending two families. May to August was a delightful blur of new home, new siblings, new routines, new neighbors. For all seven of us, it was a fun adventure to find our new normal. Perhaps it seemed so easy because when you’ve lived through a tsunami, an occasional rainstorm seems insignificant by comparison.

Late August broke the spell.

“Will all the kids in my class know about my dad?” Bryce’s voice told me this question had been troubling him. “Would they like me if they knew?”

We were on our way home from buying school supplies. Car rides were always great times to find out what was on Bryce’s mind.

I gave myself a few moments to consider the questions I’d been wondering myself. I felt such a tremendous burden for my kids. I fiercely wanted to protect them from the consequences of Charlie’s actions. But that was a God-size, not a mom-size, job. I could cover them with prayer and do my best to equip them to respond to the challenges they faced. I reminded myself that the rest was in God’s capable hands.

“If this wasn’t your life, how would you feel if one of your friends had to go through what you’ve been through?” I asked him. “Look at it from someone else’s perspective. If one of your classmates had a family tragedy, you would want to help him, wouldn’t you? You care about your friends. And that is how a true friend will act.”

This conversation with Bryce was really a continuation of
what I expect will be a lifelong conversation about integrating the tragedy into our lives and relationships.

The first anniversary of the shooting was looming large. From the resurgence of media calls, we knew that Nickel Mines and Georgetown were about to be invaded again. We were advised by counselors to leave town over the anniversary to avoid the intrusion of media upon our lives. Once again, I declined every media request. The media, I knew, would reduce our horrific experiences into a few quick sound bites or staggering headlines, and I didn’t want my family subjected to that. What purpose would it serve? My first priority was the healing of my children, and I didn’t see interaction with the media as something that would further that goal.

So we planned a one-week cruise to Bermuda with our family of seven, Dan’s mom, Charlie’s parents, and some of his extended family. I was thrilled that Charlie’s parents could go with us, so that we could continue to blend our family with love from all sides.

Up until a year ago, I had only taken one round-trip flight on an airplane. Because of my dad’s work schedule, I didn’t grow up going on yearly vacations. It seemed that since the shooting, God was making up for lost time and missed opportunities!

Even away from town, however, a sickening sense of dread grew stronger as October 2 drew closer. When the day dawned, I was a wreck inside. I held back tears through breakfast, while we disembarked, and as we waited to board a bus to a nearby beach. But once I was seated, I lost my tenuous grip on my emotions. While my children chatted happily with one another and Dan marveled at the crystal blue water, his wide eyes glued to the scenery through the windows, I too kept my face toward the window, hoping that no one noticed the stream of tears flowing down my
face. The pain that had been lurking in the shadows of my soul rushed to the surface.

The thought of the Amish children, mothers, and fathers facing this anniversary of their loss that day tore at my heart. Wrenching sadness over Charlie’s choices, shame for not somehow knowing, and fear for my children’s emotional well-being overwhelmed me. I tried in vain for self-control, then realized that I had to simply let my tears do their work of washing out the clinging grief. Rather than resisting it, I had to let it come, offer it to God, and open myself to his cleansing power.

“Marie, are you angry at Charlie?” It was a question I’d heard from loved ones and counselors many times. I heard it again on this day.

“No, I’m not angry. It’s not that I’ve never felt anger, but when my emotions surface, I take them before the Lord. He is the Comforter. It was anger that led Charlie to his violence, so allowing it to take root in my life is unthinkable. My children need a compassionate and steady mom, not an angry one, and my desire is to give them everything they need.”

I remembered that even in the immediate aftermath of the shooting, feelings of anger surfaced only a few times. In those flickering moments, I felt angry that Charlie had stolen the lives of innocent children, robbed Amish families of their precious young ones, robbed my children of their father, and abandoned me to answer for it all. But those times of agitation were always overcome by the gentleness of Jesus. He invited me to a deeper place, characterized not by anger but instead by great anguish and sorrow within my heart. I saw his suffering at Gethsemane differently now — choosing to bear undeserved burdens. As I allowed myself to experience sorrow, God comforted my heart as only he can. So
I honestly told the counselors and my family that I did not
feel
angry.

Today, I asked myself the same question — and found that my answer hadn’t changed. Grief and sorrow flooded my soul on this first anniversary, but not anger.

Later in the day, while my family splashed in the waves on a gorgeous beach that should have made my heart smile, I was focused inward, recalling the wisdom in 2 Corinthians 1:3 – 7 that I have tested and found to be true:

We live in a fallen world in need of a Savior. Wars, pestilence, cruelty, natural and man-made disasters — all of them grieve me and, I believe, grieve God. God wasn’t the source of the sin. Rather, he is the source of salvation from that sin. The tragedy of the shooting doesn’t shake that understanding. Jesus has not invited me to a place of anger, but rather to share with him in his sufferings and experience his healing presence and redemptive
power. My life is a beautiful testimony that such transformation can occur. I may not have believed it possible in the aftermath of the shooting, but it is the truth.

I settled into
that
beauty and, grateful for the evidence of God’s comfort in our lives, watched Dan and our children playing together in the waves. We had come so far in just one year.

I tried not to watch the clock that day, but there was no fighting it.

Then the police, my flight to my parents’, our arrival at Linda’s.

Like a movie with no soundtrack, it played all day. Was I doomed to be “the shooter’s wife” forever?

Then came renewal and fresh perspective. In Jesus, it always does. I emerged from that one-year mark with a clearer understanding of the pain I still carried. It showed itself in anxious thoughts about my children and self-doubt about my place in the world.

Perhaps my most important discovery during this time of contemplation was a whisper from the shadows inside me as I wondered at God’s rescue. He’d stepped into my crisis so dramatically — but why me? He had done something extraordinary, and he’d done it for me. I felt unworthy. I realized that there were still deep wounds inside, more healing necessary. I needed to find the truth of who God created me to be; I needed his vision for my life.
I needed still greater confidence in his love. I longed for his words of truth to drown out the shouts of condemnation and accusation I still heard. Rather than frightening or discouraging me, that realization spurred me on, together with Dan, to remain steeped in God’s Word and take the long view of healing.

I revisited every scene of grace and every lesson learned over the past year, and I landed not in despair, but in worship. Where else
could
I land? Jesus had brought healing into my heart and restoration to our family. He had given me an amazing husband who loved our children unconditionally. We’d grown from a family of four to a vibrant family of seven. I had experienced driveway embraces and the wall of grace, the giving tree, a basket of puppies, and countless acts of love from my community, including the mountains of cards placed in my hands. My heart was full of joy amidst the sorrow, and I was undone by the tender redemption of God.

As if those and other scenes of God’s light in the darkness were not enough, he added to our lives three tangible symbols of his gentle love. Today they abide in the lively yard that surrounds our home.

The first is a rosebush. When we moved from the home I had shared with Charlie, I ever so carefully dug up the three rosebushes Charlie had given to me, taking great pains not to damage the root system. Together, Dan and I transplanted them to the yard of our new home. Now, years later, one bush survives, a living witness of our story. Its roots are grounded in the soil of Georgetown, its thorns speak of the pain we bore, and each year its new blossoms declare that God brings new life from death. Each summer when its fragrant, peach-colored blossoms appear, I snip the first perfect one and place it in a vase on Abigail’s dresser. After that, we share
the blooms all summer. A bittersweet reminder of past love, present in our lives all over again.

The second symbol was a housewarming gift from the Amish family I took to visit Rosanna’s family in the hospital. Among their many skills, they are shed builders. Shortly after we moved into our new home, they delivered the gift of a handcrafted shed. My youngest affectionately called it our barn and wanted to fill it immediately with cows and sheep. The children of the builder came along that day and jumped on our trampoline with my kids. Their squeals of laughter, I am sure, could be heard all the way to heaven. This was a gift I could not have planned for or even known to hope for. It stands today as a symbol of grace in its most extraordinary capacity — a storage shed for memories of God’s entwining one Amish family with my own.

The third symbol of God’s great exchange of life for death is far more active and wiggly than the first two.

One early February day, my parents joined Dan, my three kids, and me as we visited an Amish family whose lives had been deeply affected by the tragedy at the schoolhouse. We spent the afternoon chatting in their living room, and then they invited us to explore their barn. There we found a litter of tiny pink newborn puppies snuggling with their mother. As my kids peered into the stall, oohing and aahing over the newborn pups, the farmer mentioned that they had two puppies from a previous litter that were old enough for sale. That was all the kids, who shared Charlie’s love of dogs, needed to hear! They were shown the puppies, and in a heartbeat, Bryce scooped up one and Abigail the other. They both began begging to take a puppy home.

The one chocolate lab we already had seemed enough for me, and I hadn’t planned on expanding our animal population. They
held the puppies as we walked around looking at the horses and cows, and our hosts explained the milking equipment and feeding process to the children. A large operation, it brought back a flood of memories of years sitting beside my dad in the front seat of his milk truck, visiting the Amish farms on his route. I thought of Charlie’s dream of becoming a milk truck driver and how much he’d loved his job. Every memory was a happy one.

As we prepared to leave, the begging began.

“Please, we’ll do anything!” the kids cried, still cradling their puppies.

Abigail declared, “I’ll do chores.”

Bryce said, “I’ll take it out for walks.”

Carson chimed in, “Me too!”

Dan grinned at me. He knew how this would end.

“Bringing home a puppy is not a quick decision,” I said. “You’ll have to let Dad and me pray about it first.”

Several days later, on Valentine’s Day, we surprised them with the gift of one of the puppies. Abigail named her Eden, and she quickly became one of the family.

Today, Eden bounds through our yard, lavishing irrepressible love on every member of our family. She’s not perfect, and often she challenges us, but even so she is another reminder of the continual Holy Exchange and of God’s redemption of our lives. The words of Isaiah 51:3 explain Eden’s purpose: