One Light Still Shines: My Life Beyond the Shadow of the Amish Schoolhouse Shooting (5 page)

Our faith was as natural a part of our lives as eating and sleeping, with prayers at mealtime and bedtime, Bible stories often told, and the language of faith lived out daily by my parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Mom took us to Sunday worship and Sunday school at Georgetown United Methodist, the picturesque little white steepled, stained-glass-windowed church just one house up from my grandparents’ home. Vacation Bible school every summer, church gatherings on many occasions, and home Bible studies were all a part of our family schedule.

It was in church that my spirit was first touched by the power of music. The blend of voices singing hymns and praise songs stirred me deeply, transporting me heavenward. I remember as a little girl feeling lifted up, like I was soaring toward the sky on my swing, when the voices would swell in words and melodies of praise. I filled hours playing piano and listening to music, developing an
appreciation for classical styles as well as the great hymns of faith I sang on Sundays. When no one in our family was playing music, Mom’s classical records filled our home with melody that settled and inspired me.

Looking back now, I clearly see the idyllic quality of the country life of my childhood. But of course, since that was all I’d known, I wouldn’t realize for many years how sheltered and unique my childhood was compared to the childhoods of most children born in the 1970s. We watched little television in our home and seldom went to movies. We read instead. When we were young, Mom read to us daily, and as I grew I read voraciously. My school classmates, like me, lived in a spread-out rural community, and though I suppose many of them watched television more than I did, my elementary years were spent largely unaware of the “outside” world of cities and suburbs from which all the tourists came to gawk at our Amish neighbors.

In every way, I was a child born and bred in the Garden Spot of America, as Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, is called. I’d been planted in the middle of everything that would set the stage for who I would become. Until the morning of October 2, 2006, I’d been the milkman’s daughter who grew up to be what she always dreamed of being — a wife, a mother, a Christian woman in a Christian family, a woman who loved her husband, her kids, her God, her country, her life.

Yet suddenly, in the space of that one morning in 2006, the warmly glowing pictures of my childhood — of Amish farms, Amish neighbors, Amish children — were torn from the safekeeping of my memories and violently shredded.

Bart Fire Hall, the fire whistle, the scooter-riding Amish first responders, who were wearing straw hats, black pants, and solid-color shirts, were no longer held tenderly as part of my little-girl world in an idyllic country upbringing. After that morning, they screamed an ugly reality to this naive-girl-turned-woman who now bore the weight of being a murderer’s wife. The faces in my memory were no longer filled with innocent smiles and neighborly welcome. They were smeared with blood and twisted with terror and horrific grief.

“Oh, God. Dear God. How could this happen? What can I do?” Thoughts like these spun through my mind as I sat in my parents’ family room. I gazed out the windows, past their backyard, to horses and goats grazing together in a farmer’s field. To the left, I could see one of the storage buildings that sat behind Bart Fire Hall. What was going on at the fire hall this very minute in response to Charlie’s actions today?

Charlie. Already that morning I missed him. I hadn’t married a murderer! I had married Charlie Roberts, my sweetheart since my teen years.

I was a teenager before I grasped how isolated our lives were from the cultural norms of most of the nation, and that awareness sprang more from my studies than from firsthand knowledge. Although I was shy, quiet, and unsure of my ability to become anyone of significance, I possessed an eagerness to excel. I was a good student, conscientious in my work and respectful of others, but rarely raised my hand in class. I was afraid of giving a wrong answer and exposing my mistake to others — early signs of my shaky self-confidence. I never liked to draw attention to myself.

One event in eighth grade played a profound role in moving me beyond my comfort zone. We had changed churches when I was nine and were now attending High View Church of God. Our church sponsored a weeklong mission trip to a Navajo reservation in New Mexico, and I felt prompted by the Holy Spirit to sign up. The night before we left, I had knots in my stomach. At fourteen years old, I’d never been away from home without my parents before. But my mom soothed me, my dad encouraged me, and I knew I couldn’t pull out of the commitment I’d made.

Once there, I felt extraordinary fulfillment in being used by God, and I saw myself in a new light — a bit more capable of speaking up and contributing positively to the lives of others than I’d imagined myself to be. At night, however, I was hit by waves of missing my parents, and more than once that week I was so homesick I wept.

I stepped into high school academically eager but socially reticent, joking at times that if we had labels under our names in the yearbook, mine would read “most likely to be forgotten.” I just wanted to blend in, believing it far better to be invisible than to be embarrassed by some awkward words or actions. In my own estimation, I was timid, insignificant, and incapable of meaningful creative expression. There was so much about myself I hadn’t yet discovered.

Being a nurturer by nature, I babysat for several families in our neighborhood and provided child care at a local resort that primarily catered to tourists in the summer months. Caring for children came naturally and brought me real joy, so much so that I began to dream of the day I would be a wife and mother. I also began teaching Sunday school. Yet even there I wrestled with feelings of inadequacy, hoping I would not make some mistake or
call attention to myself only to disappoint someone by my subpar performance.

There was, however, one place where I felt confident and sure of my abilities — in my father’s milk truck. The heavy demands of the Saturday hauling were so significant that my dad and the other company truckers could not handle all the pickups themselves. While my dad had several cousins with the commercial drivers’ licenses required to drive the truck, they didn’t have the weigher-and-sampler license necessary to load the milk. Plus, they were unfamiliar with the locations of the farms on each route.

Seeing an opportunity to contribute, I studied and took the test for a weigher-and-sampler license to help with the family business. I passed on my first try! Thereafter, I rode along with the cousins — they drove the trucks, and I did the rest. The routine I’d watched as a child from the cab — my dad unloading the hose from the back of the trailer, hooking it up to the farmer’s milk tank, measuring and converting the reading into pounds, sampling the milk, then disconnecting the hose, putting it away, and washing down the milk tank — was now my routine. I loved everything about this piece of my heritage; it was exciting to become a vital part of what I had enjoyed watching my dad do when I was a child.

When I turned sixteen, I wanted to buy a car. So I found a job at the Maplehoffe Dairy Store near my school and worked there a few evenings a week. I saved my money and bought a bright yellow used car as old as I was. It wasn’t pretty or fancy, but it was mine, and I felt the satisfaction of knowing I’d worked hard for it.

By my junior year of high school, I’d found my comfort zone in my small group of friends at school and moved with ease among my church friends. I sang in the church choir, taught Sunday
school, and enjoyed my coworkers at the dairy. And of course, I loved my Saturday job of working in the family business.

Then my comfort zone was unexpectedly invaded in a way that delighted and excited me. A woman from church invited a few others and me to her home for dinner. Seated at the table was her grandson, Charlie Roberts. I’d seen Charlie at church but had never talked to him. It was a casual evening with easy laughter, and I enjoyed getting to know Charlie. He was quiet but friendly and seemed a bit shy, a feeling I fully understood. The limited conversation between us felt comfortable and pleasant.

When dinner was over and I was preparing to leave, Charlie asked, “Mind if I walk you to your car?”

Taken by surprise, I felt myself blush. By this time I had saved up a bit more money and bought a gray Chevrolet S-10 pickup truck. I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to explain my old yellow clunker!

“Did you buy it yourself?” he asked, circling it and nodding with approval.

“Yes. It took me awhile to save up.” I opened the door but didn’t want to climb in and end the chance for conversation.

“It was really nice to meet you tonight, Marie. Would you like to go on a date with me on Saturday night?”

I’m sure my eyes got as big as saucers. My eyes met his. He was smiling shyly. I could hardly believe it. My very first date!

I said yes and drove home with stars in my eyes.

As far back as I can remember I had dreamed of being a wife and mother. Of course, there was that time in kindergarten when I aspired to be an astronaut (stirred, no doubt, by my time swinging toward the heavens on my swing set), but that was short-lived. My heart longed to sow love into children, and I dreamed of the day when my husband and I would have our own. I always assumed that I would meet a good man, fall in love, and get married, all in a seamless journey of sweet love.

That is exactly what I did. Charlie was my first date and my first love. He was an “older man” by four years. I was in eleventh grade at our first meeting across his grandmother’s dinner table; he had already graduated and was working at a local home construction company. Though I can’t say it was love at first sight, it was a friendship that developed smoothly over time, growing from friendship to love within just a few seasons.

Charlie’s early years had been spent in a small neighborhood near Lancaster. He’d moved as a teen to the countryside just south of Strasburg, a ten-minute drive from Georgetown. There his family lived next door to his grandparents, and they became
acquainted with the beauty of Amish life. The Robertses had many Amish neighbors, including the girls from the Stoltzfoos farm down the street, who would ring their doorbell selling eggs, fruits, and vegetables during the summer months. Even if you didn’t need more asparagus, how could you say no to their sweet faces?

Charlie fit in easily with my family. My dad recognized him as trustworthy, kind, and a hard worker. Although quiet and reserved initially, Charlie was soon comfortable talking with my family, laughing at stories about our family milk-hauling business, easing naturally from suitor to family member as our relationship deepened. He enjoyed evenings together with my family and liked being included when we’d all bake chocolate chip cookies together and play board games.

The son of a policeman, Charlie and his family reflected many of the same deeply held values as my own family. He was respectful, had grown up in a Christian home, loved God, attended church, and valued being a responsible citizen of our community. He had three younger brothers and no sisters, so Charlie related easily to my dad and brother, while also enjoying the tasty treats from all the “girly” baking at our house.

One of the reasons I fell in love with Charlie was the tenderhearted way he treated his cousins. He had a large, close-knit extended family so I often saw him playing with the kids and showing sensitivity toward the ones who lingered on the outside of the group. I admired his encouraging spirit and the way he loved and included outsiders. Watching him connect with children in this way prompted me to imagine how he would be as a dad. What games would he play with our kids? What memories would he make with them?

I think my family first realized how serious we were getting
when, the Thanksgiving of my junior year, Charlie went on a hunting trip with his dad. Charlie knew we wouldn’t have much communication while he was at the hunting cabin, and the thought of going an entire holiday weekend without talking with one another seemed too much to bear. This was before cell phones, of course. So before heading out of town, Charlie collected tons of change. Each evening, he deposited coins in the pay phone in the lodge at the hunting camp, and we talked for hours, with the operator joining us periodically with instructions to insert more coins. My family teased me mercilessly, claiming that he must have taken wheelbarrows full of nickels. I basked in the glow of feeling so special.

Because of the long hours my dad worked, he often couldn’t make it home for dinner, so my mom would fill a plate for him, cover it, and set it in the refrigerator. Soon Charlie was so comfortable in our home that he’d raid the refrigerator and help himself to Dad’s plate. Mom didn’t mind a bit. She loved making Charlie feel at home, so she would gladly fix another plate for Dad.

One thing, however, was clear to me from the beginning — Charlie lacked self-confidence, a struggle I knew all too well myself. I enjoyed encouraging him to recognize his own talent and potential. The evidence of his growth in confidence through my love had a positive effect on me as well.

Then came a glorious mid-October day for which Charlie had planned a picnic at a park in Lancaster. We met there after work. By this time I had left my job at the dairy store and worked after school as an assistant in the human resources department of a local healthcare company.

“So what’s in the basket?” I asked, eager to see how he had
managed in preparing dinner. I don’t know that he had ever packed a picnic basket before, but he’d insisted on packing tonight’s dinner for some reason.

He neatly spread the picnic blanket, then began unpacking each item. “We have deli sandwiches, fresh fruit salad, deviled eggs, and some delicious chocolate chip cookies.” He announced each like a waiter presenting a five-course gourmet dinner. He arranged utensils, napkins, cups, and dessert plates with a flourish.

“You thought of everything!” I said.

“And this surprises you?” he teased. He had me there, but I made up for it by declaring everything I tasted to be delicious.

After dinner we spent hours walking, talking, laughing, and sharing in the beauty of the evening. As the sun began to set, he led me from the path we’d been walking back to our picnic blanket. To my astonishment, he dropped to one knee and gently took my hand.

“Marie, I love you with my whole heart. Will you marry me?”

Hopes and dreams rushed over me, flooding my senses as everything I’d envisioned came one step closer to reality.

“Yes, Charlie, I will,” I said in quiet gentleness, certain that our promises would abide forever. Deep in my heart, I was convinced that we would have a wonderful marriage. I wasn’t naive enough to believe that troubles would never touch us, but for me, this promise meant that my decisions and responses to life, no matter what the future held, would reflect my devotion to this union first and to my individuality second.

I was still in my senior year of high school. Charlie, ever the gentleman, had asked my dad for permission to marry me, assuring him that we would wait to marry until the fall after I graduated. My parents had seen this day coming and had already talked about it.

“Of course, I said yes,” Dad told me later that evening, describing how nervous Charlie had been when he’d asked for my hand in marriage. “But my answer may have been a little slow in coming. After all, I wanted Charlie to squirm a bit.” Dad had mischief in his eyes. I enjoyed seeing how much my dad and Charlie liked one another.

We set the date for November 9, 1996, allowing us plenty of time to plan. Charlie had been working hard and saving his money since high school and was eager to buy a house. In the spring of ‘96, we found the perfect little house in Lititz (about forty-five minutes north of Georgetown). It needed lots of tender loving care, so neither of us moved in. I graduated in June, began working full-time with the healthcare company, and we began spending our summer evenings and weekends fixing up the house — peeling wallpaper, painting, cleaning. It was a magical time. Not only was I preparing for our wedding day, I was also preparing the house that would become our home. As we carefully selected the colors of paint, we envisioned what this masterpiece of our future might look like.

With each step closer to the wedding day, our sense of commitment deepened. I was a girl in love, and the future sparkled with endless possibilities.

We chose two words to be etched inside our wedding bands to stand as a reminder of the choice we had made —
Our Promise.
We embraced the pledge of unity in our home church, High View Church of God, declaring honor and preference to one another, vowing lives led by love regardless of the roads we would travel. My childhood dreams had become reality. I had a wonderful husband who loved me and who shared my devotion to God and vision for life.

We stepped out of our little red-brick church as husband and wife — without a clue of how quickly a shadow would fall over our
lives, bringing us back to this very spot with hearts ripped wide open in pain rather than bursting with joy.

A most unexpected change occurred within me in the wake of our wedding vows — a dramatic deepening of my spiritual life. The act of standing before my heavenly Father and declaring a lifelong promise stirred my sense of eternity and my connection to the God who had made me and given me such a gift. Not that my relationship with God hadn’t already been important to me; it had been since childhood. But the act of making a covenant with God to be a wife to Charlie for the rest of my life was so profoundly life altering, such a rite of passage, that my eyes were opened to spiritual truths in a richer sense.

My prayer life became more vibrant. Scripture passages took on deeper meaning. The beauty of the world around me spoke to me of the love of God lavished upon our lives. The ring on my finger, a circle without end, became a visible symbol of my unseen covenant, a daily reminder to embrace the choice of selfless love. Only death could part our hearts, and, of course, I assumed that death would not come for many decades.

This choice became the measuring stick by which I judged my life: Was I living in a way that reinforced our oneness? I was learning to be a loving wife rather than a high school student, and I quickly realized how huge a leap I’d made. The desire to honor God and my husband forced me to recognize and lay aside selfish attitudes for the betterment of our marriage. I was discovering something exquisitely beautiful about the selfless love shared between husband and wife. This one-on-one demonstration of preferring another helped me understand the heart of my heavenly
Father in a whole new way. The experience of being loved unconditionally, deeply, tangibly, made Jesus more real and deepened my appreciation of God’s promise of eternal life in perfect communion with him.

I was full of joyful anticipation! I longed to find out what the future held — never imagining that a hurricane was starting to spin off the shores of our otherwise picturesque horizon.

Within months of saying our wedding vows, my childhood dream for children of my own was deepening. Charlie too was eager to start our family. Around Father’s Day in June of 1997, we announced our pregnancy, with a due date in February 1998. Many in our immediate circle — neighbors, family members, friends from church, and coworkers — were also expecting. It seemed to me that everywhere we looked there were precious babies growing! If I thought the beginning of my marriage represented early strokes on the canvas of a masterpiece, there was almost no way to describe the significance of what was growing in my heart now.

Pregnancy was a time of wonder for both of us. Hopes stirred for our child.

“I wonder who he will grow up to be,” Charlie said one night, patting my bulging tummy as he crawled into bed.

“Will
she
have my hair and your eyes?” I teasingly countered.

He cupped my chin in his hand and lifted my face toward his. “I hope
she
has your heart,” he whispered, catching me by surprise with his tenderness. He kissed me softly.

Everything that my heart beat for was becoming reality. I was living my dream! God was answering my prayers and empowering me to live out my destiny. During this season, I found myself
contemplating God and yearning to know him in a whole new way. The Creator of the universe was creating something inside
me.
How miraculous! He was orchestrating this work I could not see, and his love was being deposited into my heart.

While there were many exciting markers along my path toward childbirth, like setting up the nursery and receiving baby clothes, I was especially drawn to the importance of selecting a name. If you look at the Old Testament, you’ll see that the meaning of a child’s name often ended up reflecting exactly who they turned out to be — for good or bad. So as Charlie and I compared names we liked, I researched their meanings. We decided to give each of our children a middle name from someone in our family, a perfect way to honor our family heritage and carry that legacy into the future.

I felt pretty sure I was carrying a girl, and the ultrasound confirmed it. As we chose to name our unborn child Elise Victoria — Elise meaning “pledged to God” and Victoria after my sister, meaning “victorious” — we felt one step closer to the reality of holding her. Everything was going just as it should. I was healthy; our baby was growing. It felt like perfection.

I soon discovered the special bond among women when it comes to the experience of pregnancy — a knowing nod from a woman who has been there, a shared laugh as we ask questions of one another that we’d never known to ask before our bodies began to change so drastically. I was enjoying sharing every aspect of this journey, not only with my mom, but also with some friends at church. That is when it first occurred to me: Where were Charlie’s friends?

When Charlie and I began to date, he, like most men I knew,
didn’t have a large group of friends, just a couple of solid relationships with guys he trusted. As our life had shifted toward marriage and his friends remained single, those friendships fell away. The activities they’d previously shared as singles weren’t as appealing to Charlie as a newlywed. Now that he was going to be a father, where were the friends with whom he could share this experience?

“Sure, sometimes I miss my old friends,” Charlie said when I asked him about it. “Maybe I should give a few of the guys a call one weekend.” Though he spoke about rekindling the fading connections, he never actually sought out or replaced those relationships. At the time, it didn’t seem like a big deal. But looking back, I can see that his lack of deep, meaningful relationships became detrimental later. He had no “brother” to lean on, no shoulder to cry on, and no one to confide in, aside from me. Only years later would I discover the disastrous consequences of this choice.

At the time, since it wasn’t worrying Charlie, I decided it shouldn’t worry me. After all, it was common for friendships to come and go throughout the years. Young and living in our idealistic little world, we both assumed that we’d quickly establish new relationships with other couples with children.