One Light Still Shines: My Life Beyond the Shadow of the Amish Schoolhouse Shooting (10 page)

“And sidewalk chalk too,” Abigail announced brightly. “Aunt Linda said she’d draw with me out front when she finishes putting all the food away.”

“What food?” I asked.

“Brownies!” squealed Carson. Leaving the red balloon to fall where it may, he took my hand and led me to the kitchen.

“What’s all this?” I asked of no one in particular. Linda and Jim had the refrigerator open and seemed to have it half emptied out, with Tupperware, covered dishes, and containers filled with food covering her considerable stretch of kitchen counter.

“This,” Linda answered, her head in the fridge, “is the abundance of good friends and neighbors. I’m just trying to find a place to fit it all in until lunchtime.” Linda’s neighbors, still keeping our whereabouts a secret, had dropped off two platters of meats and cheeses for lunch, a bowl of fruit, brownies, and covered dishes of
a mystery dinner. As the week progressed, they and other friends and family would quietly slip in and out, bringing a steady stream of breads, cheeses, meats, desserts, fruits, and beverages.

“One thing’s for sure,” Uncle Jim said, just before popping a brownie in his mouth. “We’ll have plenty to share with everyone who drops in this week.”

“No brownies before lunch, Jim,” Linda chided him, too late.

“Can I have a brownie?” Bryce and Abigail asked in unison, having followed us into the kitchen.

“Me too!” Carson cried.

Linda looked pointedly at Jim with her “now see what you’ve done” look.

Jim looked at me for approval, and I gave a slight nod. “One small brownie for each of you,” Uncle Jim said. “Then nothing else until lunch. Go sit at the table, and I’ll bring them out to you.”

The kids raced for the dining room. I smiled for what may have been the first time in two days.

Then the doorbell rang.

“Don’t any of you answer it,” Linda said. “It may be a reporter.”

She was right.

“Good morning, ma’am. I understand you’re related in some way to the Roberts family?” I could just barely hear the man’s voice from the kitchen because Linda had barely cracked open the door so he couldn’t see in. Still, she told us later, he was craning his neck, trying to see around her.

“Who would you be?” Linda asked firmly.

“I’m just trying to reach the Roberts family.” He avoided her question.

Linda would have none of that. “Are you a reporter?” she demanded. I had no trouble hearing
her
voice.

“Yes, ma’am, just trying to —” But he didn’t get to finish his sentence.

“I have no comment. Kindly do not return.” I heard the door firmly close. Aunt Linda, I could see, was as strong a guard as my big brother, Ken.

Shortly before lunch, a representative from a local bank came to visit us, bringing with her the softest stuffed animals I’d ever touched and a stack of cards from the bank staff and customers, containing messages of compassion and hope that warmed my heart. She’d called ahead and Dad had agreed to an appointment with me. We sat in the lovely seating area adjacent to the kitchen.

“Mrs. Roberts, I have something else for you.”

I wondered what it could be. I was already moved by the gifts and cards she’d brought.

“A trust fund has been established for your children at our bank. All the funds have been donated. Nothing is required of you but a signature on a few forms, and there’s no rush on that. It can wait until you find the time. We just wanted to let you know, hoping that it would relieve any financial fears you might be feeling for their futures.”

Her words stunned me. I was speechless. A wave of awe washed over me. I had nothing to offer except two very small, inadequate words: “Thank you.”

I could trust God to act above and beyond my imagination. Our lives would no longer be the solid piece of glass we’d known. He was already picking up each broken piece and reassembling the fragments into a beautiful mosaic. This gift was his deposit for our mosaic, a precious gemstone.

After she left, I went back up to the sitting room and closed the door. There, I wept. The floodgates opened once again, and for a few minutes I couldn’t stop crying. I cried for God’s goodness and I cried because I wanted to go running to Charlie to tell him what the Lord had just done for our kids. I cried for the memories of God’s healing in the wake of losing Elise and Isabella, and I cried because Charlie hadn’t felt God’s healing as I had. I cried for my children, for the ways God was providing them shelter and love through family and friends, and for the milestones ahead of them where the absence of their father would leave an open wound. I cried for the dread of the afternoon ahead of me at the funeral home.

Every tear I cried, those of sadness and those of gratitude, I offered up to God, confident that he was catching each one. He would save them all. They were needed. Because mosaics are made not only with broken bits of tile and gems, precious metals and broken glass. Until there is a moist bed of clay in which to set the many pieces, the artist cannot create his masterpiece.

With my tears, the Artist was making the clay for his masterpiece.

Charlie’s dad, Chuck, pulled up in front of my aunt’s house shortly after lunch on Wednesday. He’d offered to drive me to the funeral home, where we would meet Terri, Charlie’s mom. My dad and mom talked to him quietly in the living room while I hugged my children goodbye.

“I’ll only be gone a few hours,” I told them in the midst of lingering hugs that neither they nor I seemed to want to let go of. This would be the first time we’d been separated since the shooting, and my “hovering” instinct was in high gear.

The forty-minute drive to the funeral home felt surreal. We’d spoken on the phone earlier in the week, but now that I was seeing Chuck for the first time since the day of the shooting, the heaviness of grief on his face sent new waves of sorrow through my heart.

I tried to control my feelings of nausea at the thought of the funeral home. At the thought of what I was going to do in the next few hours, my mind screamed,
Run away! Run away!
Yet we were inching closer and closer to the unavoidable.

“A call came from a local pastor yesterday that left me speechless,” I told Chuck, thankful that I had some good news to share with him during the ride. “He wanted me to know that their congregation
is praying for us and felt moved by God to show their support in some tangible way.”

I paused to maintain emotional control, afraid that if I lost it now I’d be unable to regain my composure before we arrived at the funeral home, and I desperately wanted to keep under control there.

I continued. “They’ve offered to cover the full costs of the funeral, Dad. They encouraged me to make whatever arrangements we’d like, and the pastor has already called the funeral home to arrange for the billing. Do you believe it?”

I could see how overwhelmed he felt.

The call from the church had shocked me. Had they not given me such an unimaginable blessing, my reality would have been bleak. In addition to the horrific circumstances of Charlie’s death, I would have faced the struggle to afford the cost of surrendering his body to the earth — a cost I could not pay. First the trust fund for my children, now this. God had touched human hearts, and they had responded, giving me his mercy and his provision. I will be eternally grateful.

Other than my forays into Linda’s backyard, I had been inside for two days, so I tried to enjoy the familiar countryside of rolling hills dotted with red barns and white silos, but the windmills that marked Amish farms brought fresh waves of grief. Between our long silences, we talked about the amazing outpouring of love and support from the community. He and Terri were experiencing it as well. As we neared the funeral home, I silently prayed for the Lord to replace my anxiety with the awe I’d felt when I heard of the trust fund and the covering of the funeral costs. I longed to exchange all that was negative for all that was good.

As we stepped into the funeral home, I took a few deep breaths to calm my queasiness. Terri arrived just a few moments later. The avalanche of emotion felt crushing.

We agreed to a closed-casket funeral service to be held on Saturday, which would allow enough time for the families of the victims to have their services first. The burial would be held at the small cemetery behind Georgetown United Methodist, directly adjacent to my grandpa’s property — a part of the landscape of my life since the day I’d been born. After choosing the casket and discussing the service, the director offered us the opportunity to view the body, but I declined. I wanted to remember Charlie as he’d lived, rather than have my mind seared by the image of him in death.

For the closing music I chose a song that had been the melody of heaven for me ever since the day of the tragedy: “All I Want” by Jeff Deyo. Music had been my lifeline since childhood, a place of reflection and worship, my secret place with Jesus, the atmosphere where I felt his Spirit speak to mine. I’d sung this song over and over in the last two days in my mind and sometimes out loud in a solitary moment. It spoke to me of complete restoration.

Each time I’d sung it this week, as I asked Jesus answered, and as I cried he comforted. Considering how much I dreaded the funeral, I knew that I would need to
rest
in that song at its end. It would be my anthem, my light at the end of the tunnel. Jesus would be there to strengthen me in the end.

“One last thing before you go,” the funeral director said. “Wait here — I’ll be right back.” He stepped away for a few moments, then returned with a small box. “Since you’ve decided to have a closed casket,” he said, holding it out, “I thought you might like to take this with you now.”

He pressed the small box ever so gently into the palm of my hand. I lifted the lid.

Charlie’s wedding band.

Tears sprang to my eyes. I lifted the ring and looked inside for the inscription.
Our Promise.
I slid his ring onto my finger and we left.

Back at Aunt Linda’s home, the warmth of family greeted me. The aroma of dinner in the oven came wafting through the living room, carrying peace right to my core. It was as though the difficulties of the previous hours were forbidden to enter the graciousness of the home. The windows were open, and I tuned in to the sounds of life — my children playing in the backyard, neighbors chatting, the faint hum of a lawn mower in the distance. The neighbors were succeeding at keeping us well fed; a variety of delectable choices graced the table, the most difficult decision being, once again, how to fit all the leftovers into the refrigerator!

I still can’t imagine how Aunt Linda and Uncle Jim pulled it off, but in spite of all the comings and goings with the overflowing
plenty of food, supplies, and gifts, the house remained calm and peaceful. No television, no radio, no newspapers or magazines entered my line of vision all week. My dad and uncle took the kids to the park just down the street at least once a day — with no one there aware of who these kids were — and played with them in the sanctuary of the shrub-screened backyard. Watching my children being loved on by the men in our family in the absence of their father was a stunning visual assurance to me of God’s protective care. We were cocooned in his love.

After dinner I played in the backyard with the children. We tossed a new ball, yet another gift from a neighbor.

Exhausted by the emotion of the day, I had my eye on Linda’s garden bench. “You guys keep playing,” I said. “I’ll be right over here on the bench.”

I tried to drink in the colors. The grief of the funeral home exchanged for the peace of this shelter — the contrast was startling. I twirled Charlie’s wedding band on my finger.
Our Promise. Our broken promise
, I thought with a burst of pain.

Lord, the color of my life has been drained. I’m empty.
How quickly our hearts can plummet from moments of grace to deep despair. I felt stripped bare, like a young tree once full of tender shoots but now dismantled, branches and bark torn away. Only the ravaged trunk remained, struggling to remain upright. The image of my nakedness and seeping wounds brought to the surface an ache I’d kept repressed all afternoon.
Quench my thirst
, I prayed.
The heat of this day has left me parched, and my heart is dry and cracked with crevices I cannot mend. I have nothing left to give, and yet I must be prepared to do it all again tomorrow. Help me, Father. I can’t do this alone.

He whispered back,
Trust, open, yield, surrender to a new
depth, give me more of you. You know only limitations — I am limitless.

Sleep, once again, did not come easily that night. By now I’d barely slept in days. My trip to the funeral home had stirred up memories of losing Elise, a time when my hopes and dreams were completely swallowed up. After we lost our daughter, during long sleepless nights I would place my hand where she should be, only to find the emptiness of loss all over again. Now, years later, my mind lingered in the past, calling me to grieve anew for a loss I’d thought was healed.

Had Charlie struggled with such thoughts yet, in an attempt to spare me, kept them to himself? I didn’t know.

In the wee hours of the morning, my thoughts turned to the Amish families. In their sleepless moments between twilight and dawn, how were they coping? Surely, like me, they faced the crushing reality of loss all over again as they grieved that the daughters they had embraced Monday morning were now beyond their reach. I had no idea how God would accomplish their healing. Yet no one but God was orchestrating the generosity coming our way, as people around us stepped in and stepped up, not shrinking back, but rising to the challenge. Our community — friends and strangers — had crawled into the chasm with us to help us with the long climb out. I hoped the world was responding to the suffering of the Amish families in even greater ways.

What I didn’t know that sleepless night — due to my seclusion from the media — was that the generous grace that the Amish had extended to us, Charlie’s family, had caught the attention of the world. As I dozed and tossed and turned, their act of grace was
rippling around the nation and throughout the globe, bearing witness to the God who is, himself, grace.

Thursday morning dawned foggy and dreary, and I missed the cheerful morning light of yesterday. Finally tearing myself away from the comfort of the bed, I headed downstairs to have breakfast with my parents before they left the house.

“Please tell the families that I continue to pray for them,” I told my mom as she and my dad prepared to leave. Two Amish families had invited my parents to the funerals of their daughters, both held that day. My parents knew these families from years of visits picking up milk from their farms.

“You know we will,” Mom said. “And don’t worry about the meetings at school. We’ll get everything worked out.”

My parents had an appointment that day at my children’s school, in my place, to prepare the way for Abigail and Bryce to return the following week. I was grateful. I didn’t have the emotional energy for a meeting with school staff.

The house seemed quiet in their absence. It was the first time they’d both been gone at the same time since we’d arrived. Their absence made me realize how much their presence had been giving me comfort and strength all week. I heard Carson calling for me upstairs and silently prayed as I climbed the stairs,
Help me — I’m a single mom now. Be their daddy, Lord. They won’t have their father to lean on like I’ve still got mine.

Later that day, the doorbell rang, and once more I ushered the detectives upstairs to what had become our usual spot.

“So the service will be at High View Church of God, followed by a drive to the cemetery behind Georgetown United Methodist. Is that correct?” a detective asked.

I nodded.

“Rest assured, we will block off all road access to the church in Ronks, and to the entire town of Georgetown for the graveside ceremony, since that town is so small. That way we can avoid having the church and cemetery overrun by media vans and satellite dishes. We’ll set up police checkpoints, and any non-Amish will have to show their ID before being allowed to pass.”

I was grateful but a little rattled at the extremes they were going to for security. How bad were they expecting this to be? A sense of nauseating dread washed over me. Was the world angry with me or resentful that Charlie’s children were alive while Amish children were dead? Were the police concerned about protests? Retaliation?

The detectives must have seen the worry on my face. “Mrs. Roberts, I’m not sure you’ve heard how fascinated the world is with the story of forgiveness in the wake of this shooting.”

What? No, I didn’t realize it. How could I, secluded from all media? Were they saying that it was the miracle of forgiveness that was drawing the media frenzy?

After the detectives left, I allowed myself to revisit favorite memories of Charlie. If, before this week, I’d heard of such a shooting, I would have thought that only a monster could do such a thing. Somehow I had to reconcile that with what I knew of Charlie: that the man I’d spent my life with was no monster. Revisiting good memories not only helped me, they were necessary for my children.
I wanted Abigail and Bryce to remember their daddy building sand castles and splashing through the waves as he chased them on the beach during a family vacation, and I wanted Carson to learn through such stories what his daddy had been like.

Our extended family had always enjoyed making memories together, celebrating birthdays, holidays, and everything in between. In the summer months, and guaranteed on Independence Day, my dad would make his special, hand-cranked ice cream. My mom mixed the cream, milk, and flavorings, and my dad did the rest. He preferred his old-fashioned freezer to anything electric. He would sit on the driveway for over an hour, sweatband collecting beads of perspiration upon his forehead. Slow and steady, he would turn the crank arm, adding ice and sprinkling salt as needed. Charlie would jump in, taking his turn and giving my dad a break. As we ate the fruit of their labor, Charlie would entertain us with fireworks. He loved lighting them as the children cheered.

My family loved Charlie. He’d been part of the fabric of our lives for thirteen years. We all simply “did life” together — parents, siblings, aunts and uncles, cousins, and grandparents. Charlie was quick to offer help anytime and loved the banter of family conversations and playing with the kids. Whether it was tackling a household chore with the kids or helping my dad with a construction project, Charlie was a patient teacher or handy sidekick, knowing just how to match himself to someone’s personality. He had a quiet way of reaching into another’s circumstances and being just what they needed in that moment.