One Light Still Shines: My Life Beyond the Shadow of the Amish Schoolhouse Shooting

by Marie Monville

  “How is it possible that just this morning it was a typical Monday, with me leading a Moms In Touch prayer meeting at church, praying, of all things, for the well-being of our children at school?” I wasn’t really looking for an answer, just still trying to absorb my new reality. I didn’t give voice to the rest of the question rattling in my head: … while my own husband was carrying out his plan to murder the children of our neighbors? I shook my head as if trying to clear it of some horrible nightmare. But this was no dream.

  Dad made no attempt to answer the unanswerable. He squeezed my shoulder, then led me through the kitchen door and down the few steps into the ground-level family room on the back of their little one-story house.

  My mom was reading a book to my children on the couch. They were snuggled in close and looked tired. I looked at the clock — almost bedtime. I needed to get my children to bed soon. They needed normalcy, or at least as close to it as possible, and a night’s sleep would at least put an end to this horrendous day. In spite of the fact that I felt weary to the bone, I couldn’t fathom even the possibility of rest.

  Earlier in the day, we’d all agreed that the children and I couldn’t stay here at Mom and Dad’s. Aunt Linda had stepped in and offered the perfect solution. “Marie, Uncle Jim and I would like you, the kids, and your parents to come to our place and stay as long as you need to. You know we have the room. I’ve been on the phone with our closest neighbors; we’ve known them for years and completely trust them. They’ve sworn themselves to secrecy. You’ll have peace and rest there. One of our neighbors even offered the use of his garage to keep your car out of sight. Others volunteered to bring meals and treats for the kids. Do you remember the little park down the street? Jim and your dad can take the kids there to play, and no one will know who they are.” She’d thought of everything. I was stunned by her generosity and grateful for a hiding place.

  The media knew our present location. We couldn’t even step outside without the fear of being watched. We knew from friends’ calls to my brother, uncles, and aunts on their cell phones that television networks were giving constant live updates, running and rerunning footage of the schoolhouse and the Amish, weeping and praying. Reporters from everywhere were all over our tiny town, in a frenzy to capture the Amish and us on film, phone, or any way they could, with our cooperation or without it. They were canvassing neighborhoods and businesses, asking questions about our family. Bart Fire Hall, literally a few doors away from where we were hiding, had become the impromptu central gathering spot for the live television updates. Our nightmare was their news story. We needed privacy, a safe place somewhere “secret” where we could grieve, breathe, heal, and just be.

  I wondered what my Amish neighbors were doing to cope with this media invasion. A surge of guilt jolted through me for thinking of myself when, surely, their pain was much heavier than mine. They lived apart from our society by intention. I could not fathom how violated they must feel to be so hounded at this time of unspeakable grief. The Amish object to having their pictures taken based on their understanding of the second commandment, Exodus 20:4 (KJV): “Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.” My entire life I’d seen them tolerate tourists who would knowingly disregard this preference just to satisfy their desire for a photo. Now their pictures were being taken incessantly at the most horrific time in their lives. If my family felt like hiding, how much more violated must they be feeling?

  Aunt Linda’s had been my place of healing from a loss long ago. She and Uncle Jim lived in the town of Lititz, not too far from the first house Charlie and I had bought nearly ten years before. No media. A quiet, secluded neighborhood. Yes, how perfect.

  We waited until after sunset to leave my parents’ home. I helped Abigail and Bryce into the car while Mom buckled Carson into his car seat. I drove, Dad sat beside me in the passenger seat, Mom followed in her car. That’s just me; I didn’t want someone to do things for me that I could handle on my own. I was determined to not become paralyzed, to not become a victim. My children had only one parent left, and they needed that parent to be strong and steady, no matter what I felt on the inside.

  It felt surreal, sneaking out under cover of darkness. Wasn’t this the kind of scene you’d see in a movie? How could this be real? As we passed, Dad nodded to the policeman who’d been parked at the end of our street all afternoon to keep reporters away. Rather than turn right out the drive and onto the main road, we turned left and took back roads through the farmlands to avoid being followed. I checked my rearview mirror for media vans with satellite dishes but saw none.

  As we rode in the blackness of night, I felt my fears returning. It felt as if the ground had opened up, revealing an abyss the size of the Grand Canyon. The bold confidence I’d been given by the Lord this morning seemed to have evaporated. Devastation outside my control had forever changed the landscape of my world. I faced an immense chasm — no bridge could span it, yet there was no way to turn back. I had no choice but to face the other side of my life, a side filled with unfamiliar territory and frightening challenges.

  I reached for God in the darkness and offered him my thoughts, asking him to chase out the lies with his truth. A calm began to spread back over me. Never had I experienced such dramatic, instant answers to prayer as I had this day. I felt a flush of supernatural warmth. Even though many things had abruptly changed, some things remained constant, God reminded me. I was still a beloved child of God. I was still dedicated to being the best mom possible. I could still trust the Holy Spirit to help me accomplish what I could not do in my own strength. I would find a way back to “normal,” even though our new circumstances were anything but.

  As we stepped into Linda and Jim’s home, they welcomed us with open arms. The love in their eyes shone like bright lights compared to the darkness I’d just driven through. Memories associated with this place called to me immediately. My great-grandmother at the piano, playing and singing Christmas carols, slumber parties with my cousin, and family picnics in the summer. This home holds the celebration of life, I reassured myself. God has prepared this place for us.

  Everywhere I looked, the love of life looked back. It could be seen in the careful mix of antiques and reproduction art, treasures both gathered and created. Elegance and beauty lifted my heart and encouraged my spirit. Linda lives and breathes with effortless expression. Theorem paintings adorn her walls, marked with her signature. The comforting fragrance of linseed oil, an aroma that speaks of a home well cared for, welcomed me.

  In a flash I was flooded with memories of my healing time here after Elise’s death nine years before. Each room holds a story all its own, I thought. I stand taller here, walking with a grace inspired by Aunt Linda. She challenges me to think in new ways. She knows herself, displays her style — confidence surrounds me here and penetrates my skin. Yes, God prepared this place for us, for this time. His light is shining here.

  I watched my children absorbing their new surroundings. Abigail’s eyes were wide and soulful as she looked at the paintings and antiques. Bryce, still unusually quiet, poured himself into a chair and scanned the room. Carson, however, tried to bury himself in my mom’s arms, as if trying to “turtle up” and pull his head into his shell. He was the picture of what I felt I needed at the moment. God’s arms, warm and strong, will hold us securely here, I thought. I don’t know how long we will stay. I don’t need to know. For now, this will be a shelter from the storm.

  Uncle Jim, his usual smile now replaced with compassionate grief, spoke with softness to my children. “How about a glass of milk and a snack?” he offered, leading them into the kitchen. “Some nice neighbors brought cookies just for you.”

  I remembered how he had encouraged me, at age eight, to play the piano for him when my parents realized that music spoke to my soul and had invested in a piano and lessons. I’d felt too shy to play for
Uncle Jim at first, and while it took some coaxing, he didn’t give up. He praised and encouraged me until I played with greater confidence. Even as a child I knew that his kindness would last for more than a moment, and Uncle Jim took a special place in my heart. Where Linda brought creativity and new adventures, Jim added strength and stability. It was a powerful combination that my own children would now enjoy, just when they needed it.

  I don’t recall much of that evening, but I do remember that I didn’t resist when Linda insisted that the children and I take their master bedroom. I followed her up the stairs and into the room. It looked like a spread out of a magazine of a posh hotel. The cherry-wood four-poster king bed sat high off the floor, the mattress thick and inviting. I turned down the plush comforter and ran my hands across sheets that were obviously of a higher quality than anything I’d ever felt before. Is this what Egyptian cotton feels like? Downy pillows lined the headboard, at least two for each of us with some left over. They beckoned us to rest, promising softness and comfort after a day bathed in hardship.

  “This is just like spending the night in a fancy hotel,” I told the kids, trying to ease them into some semblance of their nighttime routine. “Let’s skip baths tonight and just change into our jammies and brush our teeth.” I pulled their pajamas out of a bag and laid them out on the bed, then found our toothbrushes stuffed into a pocket of one my duffel bags and sent Bryce and Abigail off to the bathroom. I lifted Carson up onto the high bed to get him changed.

  “Fluffy!” he declared. Bryce came trotting back into the room and climbed up next to his little brother. Abigail came to my side and just leaned against me, watching her brothers, but no smile on her face.

  “Where are you going to sleep, Mommy?” she asked.

  “I think we should all sleep together this week. Does that sound good to you?” I stroked her hair as I answered, aching to find some way to soothe her soul. She nodded and pressed herself into me. Her demeanor was so somber and quiet — like mine, I suddenly realized. Given our day, we ought to both be sobbing and wailing inconsolably, showing the external evidence of the sorrow of the day. Instead, we were both very controlled, as if our energy and voices had been dialed back to “low” as we went through the motions of changing for bed.

  Abigail crawled onto the bed, and she and Bryce nestled between the layers of crisp sheets and soft blankets. It seemed as if all three of my children were trying to be extra good, looking for ways to bring a sense of peace to our shattered world. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, nature’s attempt to diffuse the darkness around us with light. I laid Carson in the portable crib in an alcove under the window. He chewed his pacifier and snuggled with his favorite soft puppy dog. The events of the day did not disturb his ability to find rest — I wished it would be the same for me.

  I crawled between Abigail and Bryce, pulling them in close to me, attempting to surround and cover them in love and peace. I prayed aloud over our family and began to sing the songs they loved. Simple lullabies, familiar phrases, ordinary elements in a strange new world. I didn’t know if it brought comfort to their hearts, but it settled mine. They drifted off to sleep easily, while I lay awake in ominous silence. I had not expected sleep to be effortless for them. I listened to their rhythmic breathing, first Abigail, then Bryce, and then Carson. The cadence spoke deeply to my weary heart, infusing me with purpose.

  I cried out to the God who had met me in my living room, who had promised light beyond this darkness: You know I don’t pray big prayers, Lord. You know that I’d rather do what I can on my own, but I can’t do this. I’m desperate for you. There is nothing I can do without you. I know that your Word says you take care of the orphan and the widow, and I know you have seen the deposits of faithfulness we’ve made throughout past years. I know you will honor them. I’m asking you to do something really big, beyond anything I could imagine, and I am asking you to start right now.

  I lay in silence. When I heard faint sounds of clinking in the kitchen, I imagined cups of tea, warm and comforting, enjoyed in close, loving company. I was not alone. The softness of feet moving up or down the stairs outside our bedroom felt peaceful. Mom and Dad were in the room right next to mine; Linda and Jim were settling into their own guest room. I was not alone. As I lay awake listening to the sounds around me — water running in the bathroom, doors closing, good-night whisperings — my heart smiled. I was not alone. Inside, the voice of God stilled my questions and calmed my fears; outside, my family surrounded me. I was not alone.

  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 t
his 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.