One Light Still Shines: My Life Beyond the Shadow of the Amish Schoolhouse Shooting (24 page)

How fitting that she was born on an Amish dairy farm — a new life from a family that had been touched by the deaths of October 2, 2006.

In light of all I had experienced since the shooting, perhaps one of the most beautiful things about the next year and a half of my life with my new family was this: There was nothing earth-shattering or dramatic to tell! My family continued to grow in both outward stature and inward resilience.

These were days of slow and steady living, when my roots had the chance to reach down into the rich soil of the new home into which I’d been transplanted.

Dan was God’s instrument in my healing, a steadfast source of encouragement and affirmation, grounded in the Word and in love with God. Dan saw more in me than I could have dared to believe on my own. When the time was right, God would use Dan to spur me to reach beyond my comfort zone and dream.

One spring day in 2008, Dan came through the door breathing a sigh of relief. “Nicole is becoming a more confident driver.”

I laughed. “Or are you becoming a more confident passenger?”

He smiled uncertainly. “I’m getting there.”

I asked, “Who do you think will graduate first? Nicole from driving lessons or Carson from diapers?” Dan declared it to be anybody’s game. Potty training and driver training spanned the spectrum of normal growth, from childhood through adolescence, and I loved it all.
In the aftermath of the shooting, I’d have never dreamed our lives would be this whole
, I thought.

A few days later, I told Dan about a weeklong worship school, led by worship leader and songwriter Rita Springer. I thought that
a week focused on growing in worship might further the long-term healing process I was living. Even as I mentioned it to Dan, I couldn’t see how I, as a wife and mom of five, could make it work. But Dan wouldn’t take no for an answer. Four months later, I set off on a week that would change my life.

Dan and the kids took me to the airport; I didn’t know how to leave them. Aside from my honeymoon with Dan, I had
never
been away from my children for an entire week. I sat at my gate waiting to board the plane, fighting back the tears. But somewhere in the vast skies between Pennsylvania and North Carolina, a shift occurred. I started to focus less on all I would miss at home and more on the anticipation of what God had in store for me in the next seven days. As I met the other dozen women attending the conference, I was excited but nervous. How would they respond if I revealed my past?

Dinner the first night was full of awkward introductions as everyone chatted about their lives — husband, children, family dynamics. These women knew nothing about me or my story, and as I avoided their questions I realized how veiled I’d become with strangers since the tragedy. Explaining our blended family of seven brought a typical question: Are you divorced? My response — “No, my first husband died” — brought even more questions, and there was no easy way to answer, except to say, “Maybe I can share more of it this week.”

I knew there was no way to avoid the inevitable.

But these women became my new friends. Their love of God and care for one another were genuine. It took two days for me to decide that I
wanted
to tell them about my life. This was a completely new feeling, stirred, no doubt, by their friendship. They liked me for who I was, even though they didn’t know one thing
about me. I had encouraged Bryce not to worry that the story of his family would hinder new friendships, and I knew that I would find the same to be true for myself in this gathering.

Nervously, but wanting to be transparent, I asked Rita if I could share the following day.

The following afternoon Rita introduced me: “Marie would like to share how God has been working in her heart.”

My mouth went dry, but I stood and walked toward the front of the meeting room, heart pounding, reminding myself that this was a safe place. I stood before them and opened my mouth, not quite sure where to begin. So I went straight to the heart of the matter.

“My first husband was the man who committed the Amish schoolhouse shooting.”

I stood silently for a few moments and searched their faces. Compassion looked back at me. Not repulsion or accusation. Their gentle eyes invited me to say more, and I did. As I spoke, the stigma associated with the label “the shooter’s wife” was released. The shadow I’d been carrying to veil my identity was lifted, and I revealed my experience of God’s unfathomable grace to me in the wake of the shooting. That day, I caught my first good look at the new identity God had been sculpting inside me. I shed the heavy garment of Charlie’s choices and received a luxurious robe of love and acceptance. I felt lighter.

When I finished my story, the women stepped forward and encircled me, laid hands upon me, and prayed with authority. They declared the healing balm of Christ upon each wound and every hidden place. Jesus’ presence rested tangibly upon the room. I couldn’t move and had no desire to. Love I could feel and truth I could see brought an awakening that touched the core of my being. The label was gone.

Over the next few days I began to see myself more clearly. While “the shooter’s wife” wasn’t who I was, it
was
a part of my life that God was going to use. God began stirring in me the ability to dream of how he might use me in addition to my roles as wife and mother. Something was sparking within me, but it was not a full-fledged inferno — not yet.

At the conference, we were given a writing assignment, and as I wrote, my deepest thoughts poured out as never before. I offered God the deep suffering within my heart. I didn’t know what he would do with it, but I knew that his comfort was transforming those wounds.

When I came home from that school, the desire to express myself continued to grow. Just as I’d learned new things about myself through painting at Linda’s, I was discovering new growth as I wrote words upon a page.

I sensed God telling me,
“I’ve written a story upon your heart. It needs to be released.”

God had already begun to open doors for me to share my story of his work in our lives. Local church groups began calling me with requests to speak at women’s events, Sunday evening services, and banquets. Rather than declining those invitations, I now felt eager to reveal the beautiful way God had met me in places of brokenness, released light into my darkness, and ignited hope. He had done it for me, and he would do it for others.

One day I received an invitation to speak at a local event called Community Day to be held at Solanco High School, my alma mater. When I thought of the girl I’d been a decade before when I’d walked those halls, I realized how drastically I’d changed.
That
Marie never would have been comfortable alone on center stage, but now I felt ready for it. This was the first time I would share
my story at a community event open to the general public, and I wondered how people would respond.

To my surprise, a few days before the event, I received a phone call from someone who knows my family. This person questioned my choice to talk openly about our lives, believing that it wasn’t in the best interest of my children. I’d felt led by the Lord to accept the opportunity, but this resistance spun me onto a spiral of self-doubt. I hung up the phone upset and unsure of myself.
Lord
, I prayed,
did I not hear you right? I thought you wanted me to tell the world what you’ve done for us. Am I hurting my children by accepting this invitation?

The Lord was kind. Thirty minutes later the phone rang again — a divinely appointed call from an Amish man who’d lost a child in the schoolhouse. “Marie, we just heard you’ll be speaking about what the Lord has done in your life since the shooting. My wife, my children, and I will be coming, and we’ll be bringing a few others from our community too. We want to support you.” My heart lifted. God had confirmed his leading and released me to speak.

Before I took the stage on the night of my presentation, Dan and I saw several Amish couples with their children enter the auditorium, and we went to greet them. “Dan and Marie,” one of the men said, “we want you to know that we support you and your family. You are brave to tell your story. It will bring hope to many.”

I stood on the stage, illuminated by bright lights. “My name is Marie Roberts Monville. I am here tonight to tell you about the light of God that broke through my darkness.” I felt a supernatural peace as I spoke — totally unafraid — as if I were sitting across the table from a friend.

Fall 2011 arrived, bringing with it the fifth anniversary of the shooting. Media requests poured in. Strangely, I sensed for the very first time a quiet urging from the Lord to carefully consider my response rather than automatically declining. The Lord’s message from my week of worship school echoed in my mind:
I’ve written a story upon your heart. It needs to be released.

The
Lancaster Sunday News
was planning to devote an entire section of the paper to the fifth anniversary of the tragedy. They requested an interview.

Lord
, I prayed,
if I agree to go public and speak about the experiences of our family, what about my children? I don’t want them exposed and hurt.
But as I prayed, my perspective changed. I found myself asking God a different question:
Lord, I hear you. Show me how my telling the story of you at work in our lives will release life inside my children.

I now saw a grand purpose in my telling the story. I wasn’t afraid anymore.

To the Lancaster reporter, I responded, “I don’t feel comfortable with an interview. But if you will agree to publish a written statement from me, in its entirety, I will send you a few paragraphs.”

They accepted.

It was time to begin writing.

I’ve been writing ever since, revisiting the great deeds of the Lord. Filled with vision and purpose to share the story of God’s light in the darkness of the Amish schoolhouse shooting, I was filled with joy.

Until I received another terrifying call and darkness once again threatened to consume the light.

“Marie, I’m at the hospital with your dad.” Mom’s voice sounded worried. “We saw a cardiologist this afternoon, and she was concerned about Dad’s frequent bouts of pneumonia. She sent him for an emergency CT scan. The doctor found a mass in his left lung. They’re admitting him now.”

Screaming inside,
No, this can’t be happening
, I rushed to the hospital to be with my parents.

Dad’s diagnosis: lung cancer. The tumor was the size of a plum. Rounds of chemotherapy and radiation would begin — the ultimate fight of his life. I was terrified — was I losing another precious member of my family? My mom needed her husband. My kids needed their grandpa. And I needed a dad.

I sat in my dad’s hospital room, looking back on special memories. Dad hoisting me into the cab of his truck when I was just a little girl, teaching Charlie to maneuver a truck, cheering Carson as he caught his first fish, playing passenger in the lawn mower cart while Abigail drove, throwing a baseball to Bryce and DJ, sowing seeds of quiet love into Nicole, just as he had done with me. I could still see Dad embracing Dan as his own son.

Poignant moments of Dad’s solid presence during the tragedy
were etched in my mind as well. Dad packing my car to flee my home, weeping in the arms of an Amish man, radiating strength and steadiness beside me in the car, loving on my kids at Aunt Linda’s, holding Bryce’s hand as we entered the church for Charlie’s funeral, standing next to me at Charlie’s graveside.

I was, once again, looking grief in the eye, realizing that it might be about to pour into my future. I didn’t want that grief — I didn’t want my dad to suffer; nor did I want my mom and family dragged through the pain of more loss.

Yet this simple truth remains: Grief comes in this life.

Over the next five months, my dad battled cancer with radiation and chemotherapy. Our family rallied around him, serving him and each other in the ways each heart knew best.

“Mom, let’s take Grandpa a milk shake. Would he want black raspberry, peach, or vanilla?” Bryce loved ice cream and hoped it might be just what his grandfather needed. I would call Dad to find out what he was hungry for today. Treatments altered Dad’s sense of taste, and eating became a daily challenge.

We visited Dad frequently. “Marie, will you pray for me?” Dad often said. “Something special always happens inside when you pray over me.” Prayer felt like the best gift we could give him, and I was honored to pray words of love and life for the man who’d poured both into me.

We made every effort to enjoy our moments together — Dad showed off the produce ripening in the garden and teased about the challenge my mom faced in keeping up with the bumper crop of tomatoes. Sometimes we spent evenings watching a program on television or talking about the people he’d met at the doctor’s office. His heart was burdened for many who seemed to be in difficult places.

In September 2012, five months after the initial diagnosis, test results showed only a shriveled hollow where the cancer had been. What relief! We praised God together, and in private, I wept with joy and thanksgiving.

Now that the hardest part was past, he could begin rebuilding his body and his life. My parents planned some time away at Rehoboth Beach in mid-October. Dad didn’t have much energy after his harrowing treatment regimen, but he loved being with my mom. They texted pictures of their rides together on the shuttle service from the hotel to the boardwalk and called to share details of their trip. They were happy, in love, and thankful for this gift of time. I saw their relationship with new eyes as they lavished tenderness and joy on one another. What fun to see my parents so in love after more than forty years of marriage!

This joy was short-lived. Test results in late November showed the cancer was back. This time there was no hope for a cure, short of a miracle.

“Marie, I’m sorry to give you this news over the phone,” my mom said. I couldn’t imagine it would have been any easier in person. “The doctor said your dad has only months of quality life left.”

This was not okay. My dad loved life and wouldn’t give up on it easily. We were fighting for victory. We would live whatever time we had left with Dad to the fullest and never stop praying and believing for miraculous intervention.

“Marie, I’d like you to do something for me,” he said one day in early December when it was just the two of us. I was visiting Dad at the hospital because he had taken a turn for the worse, suffering from pneumonia and a blood infection on top of the cancer.
“Would you do some shopping for me? I have a few ideas of what I want your mom to find under the tree on Christmas morning.”

We had fun working on his list, and I was gratified to play a part in his Christmas secrets for Mom. I hoped it would not be my last Christmas with him.

“Dan,” my dad said on another visit, “will you teach me how to play a few games on your iPad?” I heard the two of them laughing together during the “lesson” and suspected they were far busier commiserating over the challenges of life with their wives — suspicions confirmed when I caught them nodding conspiratorially while saying to one another, “I know
exactly
what you mean!”

Dad wasn’t simply trying to build happy memories. He tackled difficult conversations too and prepared our hearts for what we would do if he lost this battle. “If I don’t make it out of here, can your mom come live with you?” he asked.

“We will do anything she needs,” I said.

“I want Dan to have my truck,” he continued. “He needs a more reliable vehicle, and Bryce needs more room for his sports gear on the way to practice. And besides, you guys need something to haul building supplies for Carson.” (Carson was always planning some kind of building project in the basement. He and my dad had been working together, pounding nails into scraps of wood.) “And, Marie, I want you to have my snowblower.”

Isn’t that just like him?
I thought. He knew how much I hated shoveling snow. Always looking out for his little girl. My heart was breaking, and I told myself to be strong and not cry for once. “Dad, the way you love our family is amazing. But just concentrate on getting better.” I tried to sound optimistic. His body was deteriorating, but his heart was vibrantly alive.

Knowing that death is coming does not ease the pain it brings.

On December 24, 2012, at 8:00 a.m., my dad passed from life on earth into the embrace of heaven.

My dad loved well. He left a rich legacy for my family through the gentleness with which he spoke, the thoughtful plans he laid out for our family, the steadiness of his strength, and the depth of his love. I’ve never been more proud to call him father than when, at his physical worst, he radiated love best.

He was only sixty-one when we lost him. Too soon. I wasn’t ready to let him go.

I don’t like this invasion of grief that has gripped me, and some days I don’t want to look for the beauty within it. The mystery is that it finds me anyway. It grabs my face in its hands and points the way so I don’t miss one act of God’s grace.

The night before my dad died, Dan and I spent the evening with my parents. I snuck into the room when Mom wasn’t around and handed Dad the wrapped packages one at a time. He wrote her name on each tag, and I placed them under the tree. I thought back to my teen years when Dad, his brutal work schedule keeping him from shopping, would sometimes ask me to buy Mom gifts or pick out a card for him to give. Back then I groaned inwardly at his requests. This time, it was pure joy to be his hands and feet of love. Had not Dad been the hands and feet of Jesus for me?

Life had come full circle.

In my fresh grief, I fall back into the arms of an understanding God, the One I long to understand more deeply as Father.

Oh, Father to the fatherless
, I cry,
life without my dad crushes me. So I wait for you in the same way I’ve waited before. I stand, arms lifted high, head bowed low, welcoming the One who fathers me.

God answers.

I began telling you my story with an audacious promise:

You’ve seen how God, in his bounteous grace, pierced my darkest moments with his light. Over and over again he broke through my pain, revealed his presence, and restored my hope.

He is doing it still.

My dad is gone. God didn’t
eradicate
the darkness, but once again, he pierces it. I need only live in expectancy of seeing him at work.

God didn’t grant my every hope. Instead, he calls me to love the moment, confident that he is creating me with the future in mind.

He didn’t
fix
the tragedy. He
redeemed
it. I am now and forever a redemptionist, confident that, in Christ, nothing is wasted, but all will be transformed to spiritual gain.

He didn’t
prevent
the loss — not with Elise or Isabella, not with the Amish girls in the schoolhouse, and not with Charlie or Dad. But, oh, how he
sustains
me through it.

On this side of heaven, for all of us, God doesn’t always spare us the loneliness, remove the pain, or still the storm. So I ask you:

How often do we miss his light because we fail to look for it?

How many times do we turn away from the tiny flicker that reveals his presence because we shut our eyes tight, insisting that he remove the darkness?

What is your story? Mistreatment, injustice, torment, suffering, grief, or even the worst of what humanity can do to one another?

Or is it a love story of the Creator God sustaining, intervening, redeeming, and restoring?

Live the love story! Fall into the embrace of forgiveness. Hide in the shelter of his wings. Step inside the wall of grace. Live in the expectancy of seeing him at work. Leap into his mysterious will. Receive the gift of love. Be released to respond to his call.

Tell the world your love story.

And when again the lights go out, you too will see that one light still shines.