One Light Still Shines: My Life Beyond the Shadow of the Amish Schoolhouse Shooting (8 page)

“Mrs. Roberts, we know you’ll need to be making funeral arrangements. The Amish families are keeping us informed of all of their arrangements. We’ll let you know, so you can arrange your service after theirs are all completed.”

“Thank you. Yes, of course, we’ll want to allow them to make their arrangements first.” I hadn’t even allowed myself to think about planning Charlie’s funeral yet.

The detective continued. “We’ll be providing security at each
funeral, to ensure that no media or protests infringe on the ceremonies. We’ll do the same for yours. The other families are spacing out their services so that they don’t overlap, allowing one another’s families to attend every service.”

“Of course. We can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done to keep the media away.” I had wondered if there would be police at Charlie’s funeral and was relieved to know that there would be.

“Remember that we are here to protect you, Mrs. Roberts. How are things going with the media? Is anyone harassing you or trespassing?”

I explained that my brother had been taking all media calls, doling out firm “no comments,” and declining media interviews on our behalf. Ken, who was imposing not only in person, but in his phone manner too, left no doubt that he meant what he said.

“Just remember,” another detective spoke up, “you can tell the media that you do not want them to call you again. And if someone violates that, you just let us know and we will contact them with orders to leave you alone.”

“I had no idea. Thank you so much.” I made a mental note to tell Ken.

“We have some questions we need to ask about Charlie. But before we start, we would appreciate your permission to enter and search your house again today.”

“Of course,” I said, picturing an army of police invading our little three-bedroom house.

Then the questioning began. They asked about Charlie’s background, work history, and parenting style. Those questions I could answer easily. But then it got harder: they probed deeply into our relationship and our intimacy. I was very uncomfortable and intimidated having to answer questions of such a personal and private
nature from these men. Embarrassed, I felt my first surge of anger toward Charlie for leaving me all alone to answer for his actions, subjecting me to such a violation of our privacy. But my anger passed as quickly as it came as I tried to imagine what secret horrors he’d had living in his mind and heart that led him to plan such an act.

As violated and shaken as I felt, I was deeply moved at the kindness of these men. They clearly understood that it was difficult for me, especially as they disclosed more details of events inside the schoolhouse. More than once the detectives asked if I needed a break and expressed genuine sympathy and heartfelt concern for our family.

Then they began to probe about Charlie’s plans for the shooting. And I felt utterly useless.

“Charlie had amassed a considerable load of supplies for barricading himself in the schoolhouse. Lumber, tools, ammunition, and the like. Do you know where he stored them?”

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea. You saw that we don’t even have a garage, and our house is so small there really is no place to hide anything. I never saw any supplies at all.”

That became my refrain throughout this portion of the questioning: “I’m sorry, but I have no idea.” And I
was
sorry. I wanted to help. I wanted answers to these questions as much as they did.

“How about in the crawl space under your home. Did he store supplies there?”

“We never used that space for anything that I know of.”

“Did Charlie usually stockpile large supplies of ammunition?”

“I don’t think so, but it’s not something I ever checked to see.”

I’m not sure just how long they questioned me. A few hours at least. When at last I escorted them to the front door, they let me know that they’d be back several more times this week. I groaned
inwardly but thanked them for all they were doing. I wondered what the rest of their day held. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be pleasant.

After the detectives left, I tried to quiet my heart by thinking back to my first awkward strokes of paint on the canvas Aunt Linda had set before me after the loss of Elise. With her patient encouragement, the awkwardness had soon faded, and I’d discovered how to transform my blank canvas into an expression of beauty.

Now Charlie’s call had doused my canvas with black again, but in the two days since, God had already begun painting new scenes of startling beauty on the canvas of my life. I envisioned myself painting those scenes. The falling tulip caught and cradled in the hand of God, my uncharacteristically bold self marching through my house, arms uplifted, praying protection over my home aloud, a troop of Amish men embracing my father, Aunt Linda framed by life in her kitchen, and my children sleeping soundly in this home filled with love.

Another scene, this one dark and foreboding, hovered in the corner of my mind, one I did not want to paint, yet knew that soon I must. There was a funeral to plan. I thought of all the shattered hopes and dreams we faced this week, then contemplated God’s generous provision for our every need, above and beyond what I ever would have dreamed. God would see us through the funeral. His light would shine through his gentle brushstrokes on our lives, creating a masterpiece of love. The funeral would be no exception.

I had no idea how, but of this I was certain.

I was nervous about asking the question and afraid to hear the response. How exactly do you ask a funeral home if they are
willing
to bury your husband?

Ours was a small community. I would understand if they declined. Would a funeral home want to risk alienating future clients by agreeing to bury Charles Roberts IV? My husband hadn’t simply died. He’d committed suicide after barricading himself inside an Amish schoolhouse, terrorizing innocent girls, and taking the lives of five beautiful children.

The combination of those realities made it very hard for me to breathe.

A haunting memory made it even harder.

I will never forget the scene of Charlie carrying Elise’s small casket out of the church when her funeral service was over. The smooth oak box that held our tiny daughter weighed so little that it was easily carried by only my husband, but over the years his grief would prove too heavy a burden to be borne by this young father alone.

And now, nine years later, I was preparing for the funeral of Elise’s father.

I had put if off long enough. I dialed the phone and tried to steady my voice. “Hello, this is Marie Roberts.”

Thankfully, I didn’t need to ask my question. A man speaking in soft tones immediately spoke up and saved me the embarrassment. “Hello, Mrs. Roberts. I am so sorry for your loss. I’ve been wondering if you might call. I remember your family from the burial of your daughter some years back. Are you calling to make arrangements for your husband?”

“I was hoping you might be willing to serve us,” I began nervously.

“This must be such a difficult time for you and your family,” the funeral director said kindly. “I’ve already given this some careful thought. At first, I thought I might not yet be able to say yes, but my mother always taught me that every man deserves a proper burial. Yes, we’ll be happy to serve you.”

How does a wife bear the weight of such shame? I would not have been able to — but for the grace of God. After making an appointment for the following day, I hung up with a wave of relief.

I was exhausted when it came time to finally put the children to bed for our second night at Aunt Linda’s safe haven. When we pulled down the sheets, we all got the most delightful surprise.

“Look, Mommy. Smiley-face stickers!” Abigail called out.

“They’re everywhere,” Bryce laughed, as he pulled the top sheet down farther and looked under the pillows. Sure enough, Aunt Linda had secretly come into our room and planted her surprise to bring smiles to our hearts at bedtime. The children counted them as they carefully pulled them off, one by one, and each placed their own stack on the nightstand for safekeeping.
Another reminder, through Linda’s loving hands, that God was smiling on us. We were not alone.

As I lay awake between Abigail and Bryce, the minutes turned to hours, yet still I could not sleep. The questions asked by the detectives kept replaying incessantly, as if my mind insisted on trying to find answers where there were none. Charlie’s letter clearly identified his grief over Elise as the source of his anger toward God. While none of us — the detectives, my family, myself — could make sense of a choice to kill little girls as a response to that grief, clearly in Charlie’s broken mind, there was a connection. I found myself sleepless in bed, reliving that time of grief through new eyes, in search of whatever clues I could find.

In the wake of Elise’s funeral, grief swallowed us both. Only twelve months and one week before, we had exchanged our wedding vows in that very same church, a bride still in her teens and a boyish groom, twenty-two, both filled with dreams and anticipation. The abrupt way our world changed from beauty to ashes brought shock waves to our frail human hearts, jolting us to the core.
If I could change one thing about the way this fallen world works
, I cried out to God at the time,
I would see to it that no parent would ever have to endure the grief of burying a child.

How grateful I am now, looking back, that my future was hidden from me. At the time, the loss of our baby daughter seemed more than I could bear. How could I have survived the knowledge that the loss of our daughter would one day trigger the unspeakable murders of five little girls?

Our family rallied to support us, helping to arrange details and cover costs, a huge gift as we weren’t financially prepared or emotionally capable. The presence of Charlie’s parents, filled with
compassion, spoke volumes of love. My mom joined Charlie in managing the planning and the countless details. Dad sat with me in silent alliance, held me tightly in strong arms of love as I mourned, and willed strength into his little girl. Charlie and I wept together and alone. I remember looking into his eyes and seeing the same depth of pain I felt. In the earliest days no words were needed between us; we were united in our grief.

Charlie went back to work within a few days, but I did not. There was no way I could attempt jumping back into “real life,” and since we had been planning for me to be a stay-at-home mom, I embarked on that lifestyle without my child.

Had Charlie needed more time than he’d taken?

To say that this season of life was hard for Charlie and me would not really be saying anything at all. Everywhere we looked — church, stores, extended family gatherings — we seemed to be surrounded by couples expecting children of their own, a continual reminder of our loss. Those pregnant bellies shouted
Life!
in a way that our lives could no longer echo. We were trying to find healing and wholeness in circumstances that weren’t “fixable.”

The follow-up appointment with my doctor was scheduled on, of all days, my twentieth birthday, December 5. We celebrated Charlie’s twenty-fourth birthday only two days later. The six weeks between Elise’s death and the end of the year were packed full of intensity — Thanksgiving, our birthdays, Christmas. I had to focus deliberately on the most basic tasks of self-care each day. That was about all I could do — just breathe and keep going. Charlie, on the other hand, seemed more able to resume his daily life. I admired his strength and questioned my weakness.

“Marie, have you and Charlie put up your tree yet?” Mom asked over the phone.

I replied, “No, Mom, I don’t think we’re going to bother with it this year.” Actually, Charlie and I had avoided talk of holiday celebrations. It felt as if we had nothing to celebrate.

But my mom knew that Christmas was a treasured holiday for me, and she had decided to do for us what we were incapable of doing on our own. “I thought you might say that. You must have a Christmas tree. Your dad, Vicki, and I will bring you one this Saturday. We’ll help you and Charlie decorate it, and we can order pizza to be delivered for dinner. Sound good? This will be good for you.”

I knew there was no sense in arguing with her. I had secretly wanted a tree, but it seemed like too much trouble. I wanted it to magically appear. Mom to the rescue.

Mom, Dad, and my sister, Vicki, arrived late afternoon on Saturday, tree in hand. Dad and Charlie set the tree in the corner, and without slowing down, Dad headed to the basement and started bringing up boxes of Christmas decorations. The hustle and bustle and cheerful dispositions of my parents and sister lightened the heavy air in our house, and before long the five of us were trimming the tree and laughing at the old family stories Mom and Dad told of my siblings and me at Christmas in years gone by. The intervention of my parents warmed our chilled hearts that day.

“Don’t let yourself get depressed,” a well-meaning friend advised me over the holiday season. I wondered how it was possible not to. I was still supposed to be pregnant, celebrating and enjoying these holidays and special moments leading up to February, when Elise should have been born. I wished I could erase all those hopes and plans that had taken root in my heart and mind.

Discontent and struggling to find meaning, I soon longed for another baby to fill the gaping hole left by Elise, for an outlet to release this love Charlie and I had stockpiled in anticipation. Charlie agreed.

Several months went by without a positive pregnancy test. What happened so easily the first time proved elusive now. Watching those around us bring home their long-awaited infants made our unfulfilled yearning more consuming. I battled with God, not understanding the pain and brokenness that lingered, nor why God would allow it.

One cold winter morning, while praying, I heard him speak to my heart, asking me to demonstrate that I was content with exactly what I had before he gave me anything else. I was sitting Indian-style on the log-cabin quilt on our bed. I thought back over the months I had worked quilting it with ladies in our family and other friends before the wedding. I remembered how we’d gathered at my mom’s house and the hopes and dreams I’d stitched into it and the laughter we had all exchanged, imagining the years to come and the love that would be shared in my own home. Those dreams included children of my own, but now there were none. I felt the frustration of unfulfilled longings.

“Are you crazy?” I cried to God. “How can I be content with
exactly
what I have, when I have nothing?”

The silence cried back to me.

Nothing? My conscience reeled. Had I really just said that? How could I look at my life and say I had nothing? I knew better. I had a tender husband, loving parents, childhood memories filled with life and beauty, a warm home, food on my table, a church family.

Humbled, I bowed my head. “God, I yield myself to you in this
process of grief. I know you’ve given me much. But losing Elise shattered my heart.” I let the tears come once again. How many tears had I shed these past months?

“Lord, take these broken shards of my heart. I know I am impatient, but even so I will wait for you to glue them back together.”

This time of hurting and healing and hurting some more was grueling. Many times I pouted, telling God I wanted out of the pain. Grasping for things to feel good about, I focused on losing weight, and we purchased a new car (not the best idea). Such diversions didn’t work. Nothing we contrived could help me feel better.

As one who leans toward perfectionism, I was not enjoying my up-and-down journey of self-discovery. I wanted to heal right the first time, arriving at my destination via the most direct route. I found it hard to give myself grace to not perform well, and to celebrate instead small steps of growth, even so small as simply acknowledging when things went “better than last week.”

Being still didn’t come naturally to me; I liked to “fix” things. But I sensed Jesus asking me to lay aside my Martha disposition in order to choose “the better part” like Mary and sit at his feet (Luke 10:41 – 42).

“Worship me, Marie,” his Word called to me. “Just worship.” At first it was hard to worship through pain, but slowly I began to come, sit, and worship
from
my place of broken dreams, my place of doubt and despair. Sometimes I sang out loud, sometimes I sat quietly, focusing my heart on recounting his goodness and allowing it to spill over with gratitude, despite my grief. The voice that “spoke” within me provided guidance in the fertile ground of my surrender, and I felt a new heart-connection with my God like I had never known.

Winter gave way to spring.

That summer I spent a lot of time mowing my grandfather’s acreage — a large green canvas upon which I could paint my thoughts. Charlie and I were still living in our first house in Lititz at the time, and the mowing took me back to my hometown of Georgetown, about forty-five minutes south. Returning to the scenery of my childhood brought a fresh whisper of peace. The hours spent bumping along on Grandpa’s lawn tractor proved a perfect setting for worship. The roar of the 48-inch-deck mower provided anonymity for me to sing aloud with abandon. I nearly wore out a Vineyard CD as I listened over and over again to Mark Miller’s lyrics: “I delight in you, Lord; you make my heart jump.” Sometimes I could feel my heart jumping. God was stirring me, lifting settled dreams, bringing them back to the surface.

I had no inkling that I was mowing the very ground that would one day become my new home with Charlie, a home filled with the laughter of three precious children yet to come; no idea that on that very spot there would one day be a porch where I would watch helicopters rushing to the horrific scene of Charlie’s grief and rage unleashed.

As I write, I am moved beyond words that God chose to make that a place of healing for my first broken heart. He had me cover that very soil with prayers for his presence and peace, with songs of praise, with whispers of his words from Scripture, all falling on that unbroken turf.

One particular day, as I sang aloud while mowing Grandpa’s acreage, I heard the Lord whisper a name to me: “Abigail.”

I was so jolted by this strong sensation of hearing God’s voice that I stopped the mower, pulled off my CD headphones, and sat still, bolt upright, straining to listen.

“Abigail.” It wasn’t an audible voice from the heavens. It was more like an intimate whisper to my soul, and with it this time came instructions. “Look up the meaning in your baby name book.”

I felt goose bumps from head to toe. Knowing I couldn’t leave the mowing uncompleted, I zoomed over the remaining grass and drove home. I was positive I was
not
pregnant, yet I felt a sense of holy expectation to discover what God was going to reveal. When I pulled up to our house, I dashed inside, grabbed my Bible and baby name book, sat on the floor of our still partially finished nursery, and turned to the A’s in the baby name book.

My heart leaped. Abigail was defined as “source of delight.” The book included a reference to Psalm 37:4. My fingers flew through the pages of my Bible to the verse, and I read aloud: “Take delight in the
LORD,
and he will give you the desires of your heart.” God was giving me a glimpse of his plan, and I absolutely believed I was going to have another baby, a girl named Abigail.

A rainstorm pelted the roof while I was having this conversation with the Father, and once the rain stopped I rose to gaze out the window. With equal parts disbelief and delight, I beheld a rainbow painted in the sky above. God’s palette stretched vibrantly, declaring that he was, indeed, painting the story of my life. Just as the Lord had covenanted with Noah to preserve life on this earth, he was confirming his promise of new life to me. I took lots of pictures of this affirmation from heaven, eager to document the event for Charlie and to keep them as a reminder of God’s promise for any difficult days ahead. I couldn’t wait for Charlie to get home!