One Light Still Shines: My Life Beyond the Shadow of the Amish Schoolhouse Shooting (7 page)

The night went on. And on and on and on. I tried not to watch the clock, but it kept drawing my eyes as if taunting me that this night would never end. When it seemed as though evil lurked in the shadows and my solitude in the long, still night was magnified, I prayed for God to fill the minutes with his presence. Though sleep eluded me much of the night, I did find some rest and peace within the arms of Jesus, cradled deeply in a cozy bed, surrounded by the most priceless gifts I’d ever been given — my children.

When morning light first began to dance across the room, I forgot for just one moment where I was and the circumstances surrounding our stay, but as reality dawned on me, I was at least relieved I had survived the long night.

The bedroom was even more beautiful in the daylight. Botanical
prints hung on the walls; tasteful decorations and antiques graced the room. My senses took in the stark contrasts of my life — horror threatened me but beauty overtook me. This room gave hope: Did it mean that God saw detailed beauty yet to come, and he was asking me to trust him within the mess and walk with him through the pain?

I didn’t want to embrace this day. I wanted to stay in this bedroom, sheltered from the outside world and its threatening presence. In truth, I didn’t want to “do” any of this. I didn’t want to see the devastation on the faces of those around me. I didn’t want to answer a million probing questions from the detectives. And I didn’t want to make the decisions for the week’s details that loomed over me. This shouldn’t have happened, and I didn’t want it.

I had spent the first twenty-eight years of my life keenly aware of others’ thoughts toward me. I always aimed to please. When clothes were given to me, I wore them, even when I didn’t like the color or style, because I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I did my best in school, on the job, and at home because those around me deserved the best I had to offer, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. I tried hard to follow all the rules because, to me, correction of any kind was a mark of failure. I didn’t raise my hand in class even if I was 99 percent sure I knew the answer, because there was that 1 percent chance I could be wrong. I always erred on the side of perfectionism.

Suddenly the whole world thought things about me that I couldn’t do a thing about. Just as suddenly, I realized with a shock, I didn’t care!

In one day, my sensitivity to others’ opinions had shifted dramatically. The only opinion that mattered now was God’s; my Father’s voice was the one that counted. I was free from worries of
disappointing others and from thoughts of potential failure. And the reasons for this were completely practical: The world would draw its own conclusions no matter what I said or did. I couldn’t control what they thought. I could control only the choices I would make for my family. God believed in me enough that he allowed me to be Charlie’s wife, even though he knew that these circumstances would arise and threaten to destroy everything I held dear. He allowed me to walk the road that led me here anyway. He was confident that I would make the right choices and find healing, for myself and for my children. What I was feeling now wasn’t pressure to perform; just the opposite — it was freedom to simply be myself.

Now, as in my living room the previous morning after I called 911, I felt invaded by a confidence I’d never before experienced: a newfound strength of spirit, mind, and body. In walking through the fire of those first twenty-four hours, something had happened inside of me. Everything that truly didn’t matter had been burned away. What remained was stronger because of this refining fire —
I
was stronger! I felt transformed.

I still didn’t
want
to handle the meetings I knew lay ahead, to make the decisions, to keep talking about the details with my wounded children. But miraculously, I wasn’t
afraid
to do those things. I knew I was capable of walking through all the circumstances awaiting me, but it meant that I must continue to trust God, believing he was infusing me with wisdom, and take one step at a time. I would step out into the day and face whatever needed facing. I was not alone.

When I climb out of this bed, I’ll be stepping into a spotlight on center stage, with the whole world watching
, I told myself.
God, go before me and beside me.

I rose quietly so as not to disturb my children, still sleeping, peaceful expressions on their faces. I looked at my face in the bathroom mirror.
So this is what a widow looks like.
I began to get ready, just as I had done every morning before — wash my face, apply makeup, straighten my otherwise curly hair. There were still some private moments, moments for just me. I still retained some control over my life.

With a strong sense of the truly miraculous presence of God, I stepped to the door, stood quietly for a moment, then grabbed the handle and turned — and stepped onto center stage.

Downstairs, I found my aunt in the kitchen. “Want a cup of coffee, Toots?” she greeted me, using the slang term of endearment she often used. A nice beginning. The mug warmed my hands as I stood at her large kitchen island and watched her empty the dishwasher. White cream blended with the amber liquid. It tasted as it always did. Maybe not
everything
had changed. I sat in the familiar high-backed chair in the sun-drenched seating area just off the kitchen, one wall a bank of windows overlooking the garden, the adjacent wall an exquisite arrangement of theorem paintings and original folk art. The physical world around me had not changed. Though my life had been drastically altered, it somehow still fit within a time and space that was as ordinary as last week.

I am with you
, my Lord whispered to my soul.
Watch for me. I have you surrounded.

I was filled with an acute awareness of his presence. The warmth of the mug. The love in Aunt Linda’s voice. The beauty of the art. The backyard looked like a pristinely manicured garden from an
Outdoor Living
magazine, flowers still blooming, even
butterflies dancing in front of the window on another Indian-summer, October day. Trees ablaze with color declared the ability for life and death to coexist in this moment of time. We belonged to the God who ruled
over
life and death.

“Do you know one of my favorite memories of your place, from my childhood?” I asked Linda. She stopped puttering around the kitchen and took a seat in the wingback chair across from me, her back to the window showcasing her garden. She was literally framed with the life of the garden. All of this was a gift — an extravagant gift given in the midst of losing all I’d ever known.

“Our
Pollyanna
night?” she guessed immediately.

“Yes! How did you know? What was I — maybe seven or eight? And you invited me and a few of Laura’s friends to Laura’s birthday party.” Laura was my cousin, Linda’s daughter. “We all watched the movie
Pollyanna
together and you had us act it out. Then you fixed eggplant parmesan, which I had never tasted. I loved it. We laughed all evening as we reenacted our favorite scenes.”

Linda beamed at my description. “You girls were nothing but giggles and fun. I loved every minute of it. We made a great memory that night.” She paused then, suddenly serious, and said, “Memories feed us in dark times, Marie.”

I nodded and sipped my coffee. “I remember clear as day,” I said, “when, after the death of Elise, you said to me, ‘Marie, you need to paint. Come to my place. We’ll paint together.’”

Linda laughed. “Do you remember your answer? ‘Aunt Linda, I can’t paint. I have no artistic skills at all!’”

“I was afraid I’d make a fool of myself trying to paint. Plus, I think my lack of self-confidence was heightened by my loss of Elise. I was so low. But you did not give up. You coaxed and encouraged until I could not say no.”

“Well, of course. It’s what you needed. Art heals. You know I believe that.”

Aunt Linda’s life was proof of that belief. A gifted artist, she is one of my mom’s four sisters. She specializes in theorem painting, an early American decorative technique that dates back to the 1800s, and she has work displayed in a number of historic homes and museums. Her home is a testimony of her love of a broad scope of artistic expression, from watercolors and oils on canvas to painted trays, pottery, and glasswork. Linda has a rare passion to reach out to others with the life-giving power of artistic expression. The lower level of her home is an art studio, but not for her alone. She opens it to those who’d like to explore the artist within and find peace.

When I was grieving the loss of Elise, I had accepted Aunt Linda’s invitation to come by one afternoon a week. We started with basic mechanics — how to hold the brush and the different types of strokes that created unique effects. Under her tutelage I discovered that my small, uncertain brushstrokes took shape to become a scene upon my canvas. All the while, within I was trying out fresh new brushstrokes on my internal landscape.

Somewhere in the midst of blending colors and creating texture, the emptiness of my life merged into the fullness of hers, and I left feeling less of an ache. She drew out of me the act of creativity, where I found a deep connection with my Creator. As the weeks went by I discovered I could trust that God, the master artist, would paint new scenery into my life in his own time.

Now, years later, I could watch as my children basked in the love of Aunt Linda, who had always been a treasured aunt, filled with such vibrancy that even as a child, whenever I was with her, I’d felt swept into a gurgling, tumbling river teeming with the energy of life. Maybe my children would feel the same.

Suddenly Uncle Jim came bustling into the kitchen. “I’m going to head over to your place now and get those bikes you wanted me to pick up,” he said. “I want the kids to have whatever they need to feel at home.”

“Be careful of the media,” Linda called as he headed toward the garage. “They’ll be swarming all over her house. Don’t let them follow you home!”

“I won’t. Don’t worry,” he called back, and he was gone.

“What will
you
need today?” Linda asked. “We’ll keep the kids entertained, so don’t worry about them.”

“The detectives will be here before long. I have no idea how much time they’ll need, but I’ll need some privacy with them.”

“Done,” Linda declared.

By the time everyone had had breakfast, Uncle Jim returned from his errand with the news that my house had been surrounded by media and guarded by police who’d done their best to shield him from the journalists. Even so, the reporters had shouted questions to him such as
Are you a relative? Where are Marie and the children? Will they be coming back? How are they doing?
I felt nervous at the thought of reporters circling my home, but I was grateful to be miles away.

The doorbell rang, and my heart jumped. I knew it was the detectives. I froze for a moment. Uncle Jim went to greet them at the front door. I heard their polite introductions, so I forced myself to my feet and into the living room despite the sudden wave of nausea that attacked me. I was frustrated with myself for feeling
so overwhelmed and intimidated, but I thought that, with my parents by my side, I’d soon calm down. At least it was the same three detectives I’d met yesterday — no one new to get used to. I was struck again with how professional and polite they were.

“Mrs. Roberts, is there a private place we can talk?”

“Yes, you can meet upstairs in the sitting room,” Aunt Linda said. She led the way and the rest of us followed. But the last detective in line stopped and said to my mom, “I’m sorry — we need to speak with Marie alone.”

My stomach dropped. I hadn’t anticipated this. But what could I do? Linda led us into the guest room where she’d already closed the sofa bed she and Jim had slept on, making it a cozy little sitting room. She shut the door behind her as she left.

I was trembling. I felt small.
Just sitting in the same room with three detectives in dark suits is nearly overwhelming to me.
During my high school driver’s education class, the instructor made one statement I’ve never forgotten: “If a police officer follows you for two miles, he can find something to pull you over for.” I don’t know if that’s accurate, but it became the truth to me — to the point that even as an adult, if I noticed a police car behind me, I would turn and go a different way than I had planned. I didn’t want to be pulled over! I’m afraid that this attitude of fear of the police heightened my anxiety as we took our seats.

What am I so afraid of?
I demanded of myself. But I knew the answer. These men would tell me things I didn’t want to hear. They would make the murders real. Also, they would want me to help them understand Charlie’s motive; they would be looking for explanations, for clues. The Marie who wanted to help them — Marie the pleaser who wanted to meet their expectations — was clueless. I felt guilty. I had nothing to offer. I felt stupid, because I knew nothing.

“We know this must be terribly difficult, Mrs. Roberts,” one of them said. “How are Abigail and Bryce doing?”

“So far, they seem to be handling it well,” I answered. “The counselors will be back today and every day this week to help. Carson’s too little to understand. How are the Amish families of the girls in the hospitals?” I asked.

“Rosanna King’s injuries are extensive. She’s still in critical condition,” one detective answered. “Rachel and Sarah Ann Stoltzfus, Barbie Fisher, and Esther King have stabilized, but they’re still in the hospital.”

“And their families?” I asked.

The detectives all seemed to sigh at once. I could feel the weight of grief these men were bearing. “Much in the way you seem to be, Mrs. Roberts. They’re surrounded by family and friends. They’re worried and grieving but holding on.”

I was struck by the compassion in his voice. I sensed that what these three men were doing was far more than “just a job.” They hurt for all of us. Tears wetted my cheeks, and as I reached for a tissue I realized that Aunt Linda had placed more than enough boxes of tissues around the room. Another God-sighting of his tender care. But these men were used to tears, so I didn’t need to apologize.