The media’s descent on my parents’ home intensified as the afternoon wore on. The phone calls were coming more quickly, and a few reporters had even knocked on the door. My brother, Ken, posted himself on the front steps. That will scare them away, I remember thinking. Ken was an imposing figure. Thirty-one years old, with a solid, muscular frame, he claimed his spot like a menacing bouncer prepared to toss aside anyone daring to venture into the yard. He naturally projected an intimidating presence. I’d always joked that he was someone I wouldn’t want to run into in a lit alley, let alone a dark one. A few years before, he’d started shaving his head — that just added to the image. I felt safe with my big brother standing guard, and knowing Kenny (a nickname my sister and I alone were allowed to call my big brother) as I did, he’d probably needed to find some purpose, some job to do, since he was never much for just sitting still and talking. I later learned that the police, concerned for our privacy, soon blocked off our street to all but our neighbors, keeping the onslaught of media vans from even entering our line of sight. I owe them a debt of gratitude.
I soon found that I lacked the energy for conversation. In search of solitude, I withdrew to the kitchen. The children were once again out back, and my dad was tossing a ball around with them. Dad, taking care of my kids. Dad, modeling for me what God, my heavenly Father, was doing for us all.
In my solitude, I reached for God and offered him my tortured thoughts. I haven’t done anything wrong, I tried to assure myself, but I was Charlie’s closest connection. What kind of man would execute little girls? How could my Charlie be that man? God, what did I miss? Could I have stopped this? How can I explain what he did?
I felt deserted, left behind to bear the world’s judgment and questions alone, and I felt that weight pressing me down. But even in my weakness, I knew that the Lord would come in strength. It was my duty to be willing, obedient, and devoted to him, trusting his heart and walking in confident expectation of his provision in all forms. I remembered a verse, 2 Corinthians 12:9: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” In my insufficiencies he would be sufficient. I needed to allow God to be responsible for working out my healing and the healing of my children. The pressure of it all was not for me to bear.
I didn’t know how, but I knew that God was profoundly at work.
I was sitting alone at the kitchen table, watching the breeze playing with the deep red maple leaves on the driveway out front, when I first saw them — a small group of five or six Amish men walking down the street. Black hats, black pants with suspenders strapped over their solid-color shirts, blue, gray, and green. For a moment I thought I was going to be sick; my stomach lurched as a wave of dread washed over me. I stood and stepped toward the window, half-hiding myself behind the curtain. I panicked. They were coming here!
I rushed from the kitchen, looking for Dad, and found him in the backyard with the kids again.
“Dad, a group of Amish men are coming down the street. What should we do?” I couldn’t think. I was afraid to face these men, afraid to see the pain in their faces, afraid of the anger they must feel, the questions they must have for me.
“It’s okay, Marie,” Dad said. “I’ll go out and talk to them. You stay inside.”
I returned to the kitchen and again half-hid myself behind the curtain.
The Amish men stood in the street in front of the house for a moment, then stepped forward onto my parents’ driveway. My mouth went dry. I watched as Dad walked down the driveway to talk with them — to these men who were not strangers, but rather neighbors he had known a long time. No doubt they had just left their own weeping families. I could only imagine what was going through my dad’s head as he neared those who had sustained tragedy and devastation at the hand of his son-in-law.
Now these men stood face-to-face with my dad. I couldn’t breathe.
And then the most unimaginable act.
An Amish man with a long gray beard stepped toward my father and opened his arms wide. My father fell into those arms, his shoulders heaving, held and comforted by a friend.
Grief met grief.
My heart knew that I too was being held in this embrace. A cry deep within me made its way to the surface, and I wept in astounded relief, in shared sorrow, in pure communion with my Father God who was painting before my eyes a masterpiece of grace.
My world went silent except for the sound of my own crying as I watched this scene play out through the windowpanes. I couldn’t hear a word being spoken but didn’t need to — the gestures told the story. Heads nodding, hands clasping, the men offered more embraces as they stepped in closer to one another. My dad placed his hand on the shoulder of one of the men, and their eyes met as they spoke and listened to one another. Dad was among brothers, sharing grief and comfort.
I don’t know how much time passed as the men talked and wept together. It could not have been long, but I didn’t tear my eyes away for even a moment. I knew I was witnessing an exchange filled with mutual love and concern, an embrace of my entire family from the entire Amish community.
Finally, the men stepped back amid handshakes and nods of farewell. They turned, walked slowly down the driveway, and retreated down the street, this band of Amish men shoulder to shoulder, this troop of grace framed by red maples. Dad stood still and watched them go, then turned and headed back to the front door. I dried my tears with a handful of tissues pulled from my pocket, took a deep breath, and headed to the living room just as Dad closed the front door behind him.
My entire family gathered around Dad, waiting for him to speak, to share the words he’d heard. Mom stepped into Dad’s arms, and they held each other for a moment; then Dad looked at me. His face, to my surprise, was filled with light in spite of red-rimmed eyes.
“Marie.” Dad spoke so softly that I stepped closer to him. “They came out of concern for you, for the children, for all of us. They asked if you were okay, if the children were safe. They wanted to know what they could do for you. They asked how they could help.” Dad looked around the room, speaking to the entire family now, his voice choked with emotion. “Every one of those men had a family member in the schoolhouse this morning. Can you believe they came to express their concern for us? They wanted us all to know that they have forgiven Charlie and that forgiveness embraces us all. They spoke no words of anger, not the slightest hint of resentment, only assurance, concern, and comfort.”
How can I describe the sound at that moment in my parents’ living room? It was as if the room itself inhaled in amazement, then exhaled in relief. Or was that just my own breathing, amplified by my heart? I stood speechless, too stunned to respond. These men whose families had been ravaged by my Charlie were concerned about me? Their hearts were moved for my children while their own little girls lay dead and injured? They wanted to know how they could help us?
How does a fractured heart hold such a gift?
My soul drank it in but could not contain in. It flowed through my veins, spilled over, filled the very air I was breathing, infused me with the brilliant light of God’s presence. I now understood the light in Dad’s face.
The Amish could have chosen hate or blame, yet they chose love. They freely gave love in its purest form — they poured grace unimaginable and divine mercy generously into our lives. Before my eyes, the gospel was being powerfully lived out. They had come to my door to reach across the threshold, extending unconditional love.
part two
Night Vision
4
the milkman’s daughter
The image of the Amish embracing my father stirred all my earliest memories of visiting Amish farms and families alongside my dad. How fitting that God should choose that image to breathe comfort into my nightmare.
I was too young to remember the first time I was lifted into the cab of Dad’s eighteen-wheel tanker milk truck. My parents tell me I was a toddler, bubbling with excitement and so fascinated with the gauges and levers that I wanted to t
ouch them all. But even at that age, I was so eager to please that I obeyed and did not touch them. By the time I was five I often rode alongside my dad for a full day on his route, as I would well into my teens, progressing from wide-eyed passenger to wage earner.
My great-grandfather, Lloyd C. Welk, started the business of hauling milk from the farms to the dairy back in 1963. He’d drive his delivery truck along the winding dirt roads of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, stopping at farms, Amish and English alike, picking up milk in cans and taking them to the local bottling plant in Lancaster. His son, my grandfather Lloyd W. Welk, followed his dad into the business, as did my own father, Ken. By the time my father was a paid driver, my great-grandfather had enlarged the fleet to twenty-one trucks, some of them shiny eighteen-wheel tankers, others a shorter version called straight trucks. Over those same years, many of the farms had grown as well. Rather than delivering the milk to the bottling plant, our trucks now delivered it to large corporate dairies that supplied butter, milk, cream, ice cream, and even nondairy bottled drinks to stores well beyond the boundaries of Pennsylvania.
Visiting a dairy was a highlight for me as a child. The dairy’s lunchroom refrigerator would always be stocked with a variety of flavors, and we were invited to help ourselves to choices like iced tea, chocolate milk, fruit punch, or orange juice. There was always one to drink and one to take for the ride home.
I still remember the excitement of driving along as a little girl, just my dad and me, together on a haul. Dad’s invitations to join him made me feel special, grateful that he enjoyed me enough to want to share his big world with me. The gently rolling hills dotted with barns and silos and carpeted with fields of corn, tobacco, alfalfa, soybeans, and more, changed with the seasons. As Dad identified the crops for me and explained the cycles of farming, I was sure he must be the smartest man in the world. I loved bouncing in the front seat of the eighteen-wheeler, watching the precision with which Dad backed down long winding lanes and around barns and outbuildings without ever bumping into anything. He was so expert a driver that he could shift gears without using a clutch, simply judging by the sound of the engine.
When we pulled into the perfectly manicured Amish farms, Dad would unload the hose from the back of the trailer and hook it up to the farmer’s milk tank. The milk in the farmer’s tank first needed to be measured (with a long measuring stick) and the reading converted into pounds. Then the milk was agitated and sampled to measure its fat content and ensure against bacteria before loading it onto the trailer.
While the milk was loading, Dad and I would often venture out into the barn, looking for puppies or kittens or just to chat with the farmer. I loved the bright flower gardens, tended with such care, neatly planted along their farm lanes and around their homes and barns. After Dad loaded the milk, he disconnected and put away the hose, then rinsed the milk residue out of the farmer’s milk tank by hand with a garden hose. Then after a friendly wave between my dad and the farmer, off we went to the next farm.
I was fascinated by the many differences between these Amish families and my own. They always worked and played together, children in the field next to their parents, planting tobacco, hoeing weeds, and harvesting crops. Older boys threw bales of hay onto the wagon or pulled rocks from the tilled ground before planting. The tireless work ethic of the Amish, shared and passed down by so many of the Swiss and German immigrants in the area, was always in evidence on the neat, tidy farms we visited. Hard work was understood at any age and respected. More than that, it seemed to be enjoyed.
My parents had a large garden every summer — not as extensive as those of most of our Amish neighbors, of course, but sizable. My siblings and I were expected to help plant seeds, pull weeds, and harvest vegetables, but I confess we did not do it with the same joy the Amish families seemed to have. For me this was a chore, and I did not particularly enjoy the time spent stooped over pulling weeds or stemming string beans. I wondered: Why did the Amish kids not seem to mind?
I was thankful that I didn’t wear the same styles of clothing as the Amish girls my age. Their solid-colored dresses were made of cotton-polyester blends, which couldn’t breathe on hot summer days filled with outdoor adventures. On top of the dresses they wore an added layer of fabric — an apron, which I didn’t imagine was a blessing when the temperature climbed into the 90s! But I never saw complaint on their faces.
The sweet and gentle nature of the Amish children was always evidenced by their genuine attitudes of service toward one another in whatever task they were assigned. Although they were generally quiet in public, their eyes danced and sparkled as they smiled and waved from the backs of their buggies as cars passed. Though it was a scene I saw daily, I never tired of the sight of those adorable, innocent faces framed in black bonnets for girls or brimmed hats for boys.
On the whole, Saturday afternoons in the Amish community are set aside for preparation for Sunday’s church activities. Stone driveways are raked to remove debris and remnants of the past week’s farm duties. Lawns are manually mowed — no gas-powered mowers here. The older girls in the household typically take on this task while the men work in the field or barn. Sundays are spent attending church and fellowshipping, so horse-drawn buggies abound on the roads. Each bishop leads two separate congregations, alternating his Sundays between them. On the Sunday when one congregation doesn’t have a church service, they spend their day visiting family and friends, sharing meals together. Many Sunday evenings are filled with volleyball games, hymn sings, and time enjoying neighbors’ conversation and company. Just as they work so hard together all week, they relax and refresh together as well.
My family life, it seemed to me, held few similarities to theirs. Raised the middle child of three siblings, I was destined to be a peacemaker. Ken was the eldest, born in 1974, three years before me. Vicki came along four years after me. Despite our age differences, we often played together. After all, our little town of Georgetown was out in the country, so we didn’t have friends within walking or biking distance. Our school friends, like us, were bused in from miles of rural countryside where even visiting a “next-door” neighbor would often require a parent’s willingness to drive us kids. It was always a treat when aunts and uncles would visit and bring cousins to play with us.
From the time I was born until the summer after third grade, we lived in a little yellow house next to a large Amish farm belonging to the Esh family. Our ranch-style house was close to the road, but the Eshes had a long lane that ran along the right side of our property and beyond, down their hill and back up again to their big gray house and their expansive two-story white barn. I’d swing in my backyard, overlooking their cows and horses, their two silos, and many acres of farmland. I remember the summer day when their grandfather gave my cousin and me a ride in his buggy up the farm lane; the upholstered interior was softer than I had imagined. Bouncing on the seat as the wheels jostled over the bumpy driveway was great fun!
There was an electric wire along the top of their fence, powered by the diesel generator (not uncommon on Lancaster Amish farms to not only cool the milk but also power the fences), which helped keep the cows and horses within their enclosure. When we were playing baseball, my siblings and I took turns retrieving any balls hit into the field, hoping the fence wasn’t turned on. We tried to stay clear of the wire so we wouldn’t have to find out! One afternoon, Ken was at bat and sent the ball sailing over my head and over the fence.
Vicki and I looked at each other. “It’s your turn to get the ball, Marie,” Vicki said. “Ken got the last one.”
“I know that, Vicki,” I said, not appreciating my little sister telling me what to do. I trotted toward the fence.
“I already touched the wire, Marie,” Ken called. “Didn’t shock me. It’s off.”
“Okay,” I said, mildly surprised that my older brother was giving me a helpful tip. Yet at the fence, I hesitated.
“What’s the matter — you scared?” Ken chided. “I told you,
it’s off. Go ahead and grab it. You’ll see.”
I grabbed the wire.
I screamed as a shock I will never forget jolted me backward. I’m not sure which hurt worse — the electric shock or the fact that my brother had set me up for pain.
“Kenny!” I cried. “How could you! I trusted you!”
But Ken was unrepentant. He probably couldn’t even hear me over his laughter, which hurt me even more. I stomped away, unwilling to play any more with him that day. True to the pattern of sibling skirmishes, he enjoyed his trick — until my mom found out what had happened. Then he wasn’t smiling.
My brother worked for the Esh family on several occasions, baling hay and harvesting corn. He would come home dirty and sweaty (which I didn’t envy) but told of delicious lunches he had enjoyed at their table. I felt a little envious as he described meals that sounded better than any restaurant I’d ever been to. And — wonder of all childhood wonders — they even ate dessert at lunchtime!
Unlike our Amish neighbors, my siblings and I didn’t spend most of our time on chores. Aside from our family garden and Saturday morning housecleaning, we spent much of our time playing. Lots of happy memories were made in Georgetown: fishing with my brother in the stream running through a neighbor’s farm (never catching anything but enjoying the adventure), sledding down the Esh field in the winter with my siblings and cousins, roller skating on Furnace Road just down the road from our house, stopping at the bridge to look for fish or ducks in the water below. These moments, while never seeming significant at the time, became a treasure-house of times spent surrounded by subtle beauty.
From spring through summer, the landscape is dotted with roadside stands where Amish families sell the bounty of their harvest: juicy ripe strawberries freshly plucked an hour before, potatoes glistening with the remnants of rich soil, and a still life of crisp and colorful vegetables that could be transformed into a salad no one could refuse — a delight to the eye and tongue. I loved the taste of homemade root beer occasionally available at these roadside stands, far more delicious than conventional sodas, and refreshing on a hot summer afternoon.
One Light Still Shines: My Life Beyond the Shadow of the Amish Schoolhouse Shooting Page 4