One Light Still Shines: My Life Beyond the Shadow of the Amish Schoolhouse Shooting (3 page)

The police asked to search our home, so as Mom and I made our arrangements and calls, they rummaged through my dresser drawers, closets, cabinets, and under and behind the furniture. The sounds of doors and drawers opening and closing, of heavy footsteps and furniture scraping across the floor echoed through the house. I watched as our family computer was carried out of the house and into a detective’s car. I knew that after the police finished searching our home and questioning me, I would need to pack our belongings and leave the house.

“How long do you think I have until the media arrives?” I asked an officer.

“I’m surprised they’re not here already,” he replied. He advised
me to pack quickly and offered to stay until I was ready to leave. Mom left to pick up Abigail just as the other officers left, but that officer remained, still and quiet. His protection was profoundly moving. I felt guarded and secure as he became for me an outward sign of God’s immovable strength, shielding me from harm.

In my earthly world, I had just been abandoned and left to answer for someone else’s actions. At the same time, I was being sheltered and surrounded by an impenetrable strength. This came not just from the police force but also through the spiritual reality that superseded my natural circumstances.

Then my dad arrived. He stepped through the door, concern and questions clear in his face, gentleness and strength in his eyes. He still knew nothing of the events that had unfolded, but he’d parked next to the remaining police car and nodded to the officer now standing by the window. I don’t know what I expected of myself, but I was shocked by the calm of my own voice as I announced from across the room, “Dad, Charlie is dead. He took the Amish school hostage, shot ten girls, and took his own life. The media is likely to show up any minute, and we need to get out of here and over to your place. We need to pack up. Fast.”

Dad’s entire countenance changed before my eyes. His color faded, his eyes widened and searched my face, his body recoiled as if he’d taken a blow, and for a moment he stood frozen. I’ll never forget his stunned silence in the wake of my rapid-fire delivery of crushing news.

I took a rattled breath and softened my tone. “Dad, we must go. I need you to help me.” My voice now sounded small in this chasm of shock.

My precious dad, always steady and dependable and solid. He seemed to grow taller before my eyes and stepped into action
without a single question. We barely spoke as I rushed through the house, gathering clothing and necessities, handing everything over to him as he made trip after trip to my car, packing it in and coming back for more. I wasn’t sure how long we’d be gone or where we’d end up, but miraculously we soon had everything we needed packed into my car. I buckled little Carson, still groggy from being woken from his nap, into his car seat and jumped behind the wheel of my car. Dad climbed into the passenger seat beside me, and we nodded goodbye to the policeman guarding my house and took off for my parents’ home.

I would guess that not even three hours had passed since Charlie had called me. In that brief time, I’d been widowed, my children made fatherless, my community assaulted, my home searched, my husband’s name disgraced, and my naive innocence shattered. Almost everything that this morning had been a certainty was now in question.

Almost
everything.

One thing was now more rock-solid certain than ever before in my life — my faith in a loving heavenly Father. In fact, far more than merely confirmed, my faith had multiplied in that short time. God had never seemed so tangible, so miraculously present, as he was to me now.

It is a mystery, this gift called faith. I had not mustered it on my own; it had simply been given to me. The boldness to pray, the Scriptures filled with promise and victory, the image of the tulip petal caught and cradled in the loving hand of God, the supernatural inner strength now coursing through my being, each of them a gift as real as the policeman guarding my home, my sleepy son securely tucked into his car seat, my mother’s strength to plan and act, and my father’s solid presence by my side in the car.

Such are the makings of my love story. God’s gifts are far too easy to miss when all hell is breaking loose, when the blackness of evil comes crashing into our lives. How tempting, how natural, to see only the ugliness as it threatens to gobble up the goodness, wreaking havoc on the life we’ve known. But that blackness doesn’t have the power to steal away those good gifts. It merely dims our view of them. The God-given riches of our lives are still there, and we must call upon his Light to pierce the shadows so we can see his love gifts all around us. This black day, God had pierced the darkness just enough for me to see his presence.

But now it was time to flee. My job for the moment was to keep my hands steady on the steering wheel and my foot on the gas toward a hiding place for my family, away from the telescopic camera lenses that would soon attempt to search out my children, my family and friends, and every detail of our lives.

The invasion was upon me. A brutal massacre had opened the floodgates, and now a nightmare was rushing toward me. I knew it as surely as I knew that God was with me. Yet knowing the one truth did not cancel out the other. Somehow the two truths had to coexist.

I had no idea how. I simply knew that it was so.

I sat in my parents’ family room listening to Abigail, Bryce, and Carson playing in the backyard, enjoying the beautiful Indian-summer afternoon. They were still blissfully unaware that their lives had been forever altered just a few hours before, that they would never again see their daddy. How long would it be, I wondered, after the crushing blow I was about to deliver, before I heard the sound of their laughter again? When would they return to playing like this, so carefree?

I dreaded having to share the news with them. How could I tell them that the daddy who loved them so very much — who had walked them to the bus stop this very morning, kissing them goodbye — had done something so evil? The reality was difficult enough for me, for any adult. How could they possibly bear this ugly truth?

I watched them through the broad windows lining the wall of the family room as they tossed a big beach ball around with my mom and dad, their laughter floating into the house, carried by the breeze. This gave me some time to gather my wits and talk with the two counselors, friends of my mom, who now sat across from me. I knew there was no way around what must be done. My
children had to know the truth, and now was the time, here in this safe and familiar place, surrounded by their loving family.

“This is what I’m thinking,” I said. I studied the faces of the two counselors, watching for signs of approval or caution. “I want to tell the children just a little bit at first, and then gradually over the course of the week I will tell them everything. Abigail and Bryce need to know the full account before they go back to school. It would be unbearable for them to hear something about their own father on the playground and not know whether it’s true.”

They needed to hear it from me; I had no choice.

“I don’t think they need to know all the details at once. Carson is too young to hear some of these things. But Abigail and Bryce must know the whole truth within the week.”

The counselors agreed. We talked about word choices and the possible reactions the children might have.

No matter what I have to go through
, I told myself,
I am determined to do everything possible to protect my children. I will fight for them, I will cover them, and I will love them through it all.
Focusing on that purpose gave me the strength to stand and take the first step.

I walked to the door and called to the kids and my parents in the backyard, “Can you come in? I need to talk to you about something.” I did my best to keep my tone warm, gentle, and even, although inside I felt the complete opposite. I did not want to do this. Telling the kids would propel us into a future we couldn’t escape. But I immediately recognized my faulty thinking. There
was
no place of escape, and there would be no benefit to prolonging this limbo in which my life was falling apart and theirs was seemingly still intact.

I stood on the threshold of two separate worlds, about to reveal to my children that one of those worlds had been destroyed.

They came to me, leaving behind the innocence of carefree play, warm sunshine upon their faces, leaves dancing through the breeze overhead, and they crossed over into my world. I closed the door behind them. There was no going back.

I thought of the countless times during my years with Charlie that I had complained inwardly about laundry and dishes, tight finances, and lack of deep communication. Those things seemed trivial now. I thought about the hopes and dreams my heart held for my children’s future and wondered how vibrant life could possibly survive the chaos of death. I felt a mother’s responsibility deeper and sweeter than I’d ever known before. Charlie’s choices were crushing. I couldn’t undo them, but I was free to make my own. My choice was for our family to face this new reality together, holding on to one another, and find our way through it with all the trust, strength, and love we could share.

As the kids skipped and bounced into the room, a breeze softly danced through the open windows, and with it I felt the peace of Jesus envelop me. He was the whisper woven through this autumn day.
Do you trust me? Do you really trust me? Will you entrust them to me?
he seemed to say.

I did trust him, but at the same time I did not. I did not trust so fully as to remove the weight of the moment and lay it at his feet. I didn’t know how. My heart yearned to trust like that. While I sensed that God was encouraging my heart to embrace his power, his provision, and his protection, I was nevertheless terrified. My words and actions would either add to the misery of the choices Charlie had made or help free my children from the weight of this mountain pressing down upon us. Over and over my heart cried out to the Lord, “Give me
your
words.”

This moment felt like the final seconds before the space shuttle
reenters earth’s atmosphere, when the heat shield must be perfectly positioned, everything covered, so that it doesn’t erupt in flames. God had to cover every inch of us or this would be the end.

Mom sat on a chair along the wall of windows. Dad stood next to her. Their nearness was comforting, as if they were willing me strength, and I knew that their spirits were at that very moment praying for me, praying for my children. Dad’s eyes met mine. While sad, they were filled with deep love. I knew that, if he could, he’d take all our pain upon himself to spare us the suffering ahead.

I led the kids to the sofa, and we all four sank into soft blue cushions that cradled us. The counselors sat on another sofa across the room. Carson climbed into my lap; Abigail and Bryce nestled in on either side. I leaned down and rubbed my cheek against Carson’s hair, so soft, so sweet. He leaned back into me, and I breathed deep of this last solitary moment before we would cross over to the other side. I swallowed hard and cleared my throat.

“I have something very sad to tell you.”

Abigail’s eyes met mine instantly, reading my pain in a heartbeat. She stiffened as if bracing herself for a blow. Bryce looked at me quizzically at first, then a shadow of fear darkened his eyes. Carson toyed with his pacifier. This was the moment. No turning back.

“Today Daddy made some very bad choices, some people got hurt, some people died, and he died too.” One sentence. That’s all it took.

“I’m so sorry.” I did my best to keep my voice gentle and warm, wanting them to feel wrapped with love, but I could feel my throat constricting. “You’re not going to see your daddy anymore.” Tears,
fresh and hot, fell from my face onto Carson’s head and ran down the tendrils I had just caressed.

The eyes of Abigail and Bryce, now huge and round, held pain too great to express. As my tears fell, my children did not utter a sound. Time stood frozen, within us and around us. My children, like me, were now marred by this day.

No one moved. It seemed as though everyone around us was holding their breath, waiting to see what the rest of this life would look like and how the kids would respond. Silence filled the room.

Then Carson broke the stillness. He began smiling at his siblings, first at Bryce, then Abigail, and back at Bryce again, as if he’d noticed their sudden sadness and wanted them to be happy again. He was my always-happy child. My eighteen-month-old did not comprehend the moment the way seven-year-old Abigail and five-year-old Bryce clearly did, but whatever he grasped led him to try to connect with his brother and sister. He leaned over and rested his head against Abigail.

I had said the words no parent would ever want to tell a child. And we had survived.

But the hardest part, I suddenly realized, was yet to come. For the past few hours I had dreaded this conversation, thinking it would be the hardest part, but now I understood that just because we had made it through this moment did not mean that the danger was over. I had no idea what was going on inside of my children in these first few minutes, nor did I know what might happen as I shared more details in the days to come. But undoubtedly, there would be many times over the next few days, weeks, months, maybe even years that would be even harder. The added weight of that realization threatened to undo me.

I wanted to take upon myself every bit of the sorrow they felt. My
shoulders were wider than theirs, my love for them ran deep, and I felt my heart breaking again, this time by the magnitude of their loss.

Physically, I was still sitting on a blue sofa in a sun-drenched family room surrounded by my hurting family, but emotionally I was suddenly standing above a raging fire, flames licking at my legs, trying desperately to lift my children safely over the blaze.

Silently, my soul cried in agony, “God, you have to
fix
this! Their lives are not supposed to look like this. They are not supposed to know such pain or be enveloped by such agony.”

What came in the next moment was as unexpected as my vision of the tulip petal, just as tangible, just as life changing.

I looked up and my eyes fell upon the open window. Outside, the sun still shone bright and warm. I felt a breeze surround me. Jesus was here. Into my soul he whispered these words:

“I am not going to
fix
it. I am going to
redeem
it.”

As those words rang in my mind, I knew that I was on holy ground, in the presence of the Almighty. Tension immediately melted away from my shoulders — I hadn’t realized how tightly my body had fused to the couch. I began to relax; I took one deep, ragged breath, then a second that came easier. It felt good to breathe this clear air in and let it fill me. I exhaled and inhaled again. When I breathed in, it was as if I got a little more of Jesus, and when I breathed out, the heaviness left.

All of this took place in mere seconds. Mom, Dad, and the counselors hadn’t moved or spoken. They’d seen and heard nothing, yet everything had changed. I held on to the quiet comfort of this moment, my children pressed safely against me, knowing that soon the world would erupt. But in this precious moment, we were in the eye of the storm, and it was a safe place to be. Jesus had not left us. He would not. He was close and tangible. I didn’t want to
forget, when the eye passed and the winds raged and I groped for something to cling to, the way he felt inside me now. I didn’t want to forget that he would still be there.

Then Carson crawled off my lap, asking, “Bryce, wanna play?” Bryce looked at me as if to check whether this was allowed, and at the same moment, the sliding glass door opened and a tidal wave of family members flooded the house. I was in a sea of warm hugs and tender words and loving hearts wanting to help us, support us, and be love to us.

The winds were picking up; this storm was far from over. A hurricane was threatening my heart. I knew that in the days to come I would find myself returning again to quiet conversation with my children. There was much yet to say. I would need to speak with them individually and relate the details of Charlie’s actions in a way appropriate for their age and understanding. I knew it would be hard every time, that my heart would be continually pierced by the words I spoke and the damage done by those words. But that moment, as I huddled with my children, hope took hold of this mother’s heart. Jesus had whispered to my soul. He had promised to redeem this horror. Redemption would come.

We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening at my parents’ house, surrounded by aunts and uncles, grandparents, and close friends. A gray mist still hovers over my memories of the rest of that day, but I vividly remember bits and pieces. It wasn’t long before the media discovered where we were. The phone rang a lot, primarily media wanting some response. I didn’t want to be interviewed, so I wrote a short paragraph that my pastor read to
the reporters. We kept the television and radio off; my family was determined to protect me from the trauma of having the crime and its aftermath replayed before me time and time again.

My brother, Ken, found one reporter sneaking through the shrubs in my parents’ yard, camera in hand. When Ken confronted him, he unleashed a torrent of questions, but my brother’s ominous scowl sent him scurrying away. A few photographers lurked in the field behind my parents’ property. They must have had telephoto lenses, given their distance, but the men of my family were vigilant in their protection of our privacy.

My loved ones told me the names of the three girls who had died: Naomi Rose Ebersol, age seven, Marian Stoltzfus Fisher, age thirteen, and Anna Mae Stoltzfus, age twelve. The next day, I would learn that Lena Zook Miller, age eight, and Mary Liz Miller, age seven, also did not survive their injuries, while the five other injured girls were still hospitalized: Rachel Ann Stoltzfus, age eight, Barbie Fisher, age eleven, Sarah Ann Stoltzfus, age twelve, Esther King, age thirteen, and Rosanna King, age six.

I recoiled as I heard each name. These families who had lost their daughters or who were now sitting by the girls’ bedsides as they fought for their lives were not strangers. I’d biked past their farms in my youth. We bought produce from their roadside stands. Charlie had formed relationships with these families in the past seven years of milk hauling, and my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had known and served these families through our family milk-hauling business. Every spring I visited the Fishers’ greenhouse to buy plants for our flower beds and vegetable seeds for our own gardens. These were our peaceful, kind neighbors, people we respected and appreciated. We knew their faces and their names, as they knew ours. To this day, I have no words
adequate to express the grief of knowing that it was my husband who so brutally victimized these good families.

As I sat surrounded by extended family and friends, weeping together at the incomprehensible loss, I knew that the victims’ families too were gathered doing the same. I could envision their kitchens and porches filled with aunts and uncles, grandparents and cousins, brothers, sisters, and friends — a sea of black and gray and green and blue, of white bonnets and black hats, all the trademark garb that so fascinates the hordes of tourists. To me, these people were far more than a peculiar society living a plain and simple life. They were individuals, part of the fabric of my community and my life since the day of my birth.