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

by Marie Monville

  I am with you, my Lord whispered to my soul. Watch for me. I have you surrounded.

  I was filled with an acute awareness of his presence. The warmth of the mug. The love in Aunt Linda’s voice. The beauty of the art. The backyard looked like a pristinely manicured garden from an Outdoor Living magazine, flowers still blooming, even butterflies dancing in front of the window on another Indian-summer, October day. Trees ablaze with color declared the ability for life and death to coexist in this moment of time. We belonged to the God who ruled over life and death.

  “Do you know one of my favorite memories of your place, from my childhood?” I asked Linda. She stopped puttering around the kitchen and took a seat in the wingback chair across from me, her back to the window showcasing her garden. She was literally framed with the life of the garden. All of this was a gift — an extravagant gift given in the midst of losing all I’d ever known.

  “Our Pollyanna night?” she guessed immediately.

  “Yes! How did you know? What was I — maybe seven or eight? And you invited me and a few of Laura’s friends to Laura’s birthday party.” Laura was my cousin, Linda’s daughter. “We all watched the movie Pollyanna together and you had us act it out. Then you fixed eggplant parmesan, which I had never tasted. I loved it. We laughed all evening as we reenacted our favorite scenes.”

  Linda beamed at my description. “You girls were nothing but giggles and fun. I loved every minute of it. We made a great memory that night.” She paused then, suddenly serious, and said, “Memories feed us in dark times, Marie.”

  I nodded and sipped my coffee. “I remember clear as day,” I said, “when, after the death of Elise, you said to me, ‘Marie, you need to paint. Come to my place. We’ll paint together.’”

  Linda laughed. “Do you remember your answer? ‘Aunt Linda, I can’t paint. I have no artistic skills at all!’”

  “I was afraid I’d make a fool of myself trying to paint. Plus, I think my lack of self-confidence was heightened by my loss of Elise. I was so low. But you did not give up. You coaxed and encouraged until I could not say no.”

  “Well, of course. It’s what you needed. Art heals. You know I believe that.”

  Aunt Linda’s life was proof of that belief. A gifted artist, she is one of my mom’s four sisters. She specializes in theorem painting, an early American decorative technique that dates back to the 1800s, and she has work displayed in a number of historic homes and museums. Her home is a testimony of her love of a broad scope of artistic expression, from watercolors and oils on canvas to painted trays, pottery, and glasswork. Linda has a rare passion to reach out to others with the life-giving power of artistic expression. The lower level of her home is an art studio, but not for her alone. She opens it to those who’d like to explore the artist within and find peace.

  When I was grieving the loss of Elise, I had accepted Aunt Linda’s invitation to come by one afternoon a week. We started with basic mechanics — how to hold the brush and the different types of strokes that created unique effects. Under her tutelage I discovered that my small, uncertain brushstrokes took shape to become a scene upon my canvas. All the while, within I was trying out fresh new brushstrokes on my internal landscape.

  Somewhere in the midst of blending colors and creating texture, the emptiness of my life merged into the fullness of hers, and I left feeling less of an ache. She drew out of me the act of creativity, where I found a deep connection with my Creator. As the weeks went by I discovered I could trust that God, the master artist, would paint new scenery into my life in his own time.

  Now, years later, I could watch as my children basked in the love of Aunt Linda, who had always been a treasured aunt, filled with such vibrancy that even as a child, whenever I was with her, I’d felt swept into a gurgling, tumbling river teeming with the energy of life. Maybe my children would feel the same.

  Suddenly Uncle Jim came bustling into the kitchen. “I’m going to head over to your place now and get those bikes you wanted me to pick up,” he said. “I want the kids to have whatever they need to feel at home.”

  “Be careful of the media,” Linda called as he headed toward the garage. “They’ll be swarming all over her house. Don’t let them follow you home!”

  “I won’t. Don’t worry,” he called back, and he was gone.

  “What will you need today?” Linda asked. “We’ll keep the kids entertained, so don’t worry about them.”

  “The detectives will be here before long. I have no idea how much time they’ll need, but I’ll need some privacy with them.”

  “Done,” Linda declared.

  By the time everyone had had breakfast, Uncle Jim returned from his errand with the news that my house had been surrounded by media and guarded by police who’d done their best to shield him from the journalists. Even so, the reporters had shouted questions to him such as Are you a relative? Where are Marie and the children? Will they be coming back? How are they doing? I felt nervous at the thought of reporters circling my home, but I was grateful to be miles away.

  The doorbell rang, and my heart jumped. I knew it was the detectives. I froze for a moment. Uncle Jim went to greet them at the front door. I heard their polite introductions, so I forced myself to my feet and into the living room despite the sudden wave of nausea that attacked me. I was frustrated with myself for feeling so overwhelmed and intimidated, but I thought that, with my parents by my side, I’d soon calm down. At least it was the same three detectives I’d met yesterday — no one new to get used to. I was struck again with how professional and polite they were.

  “Mrs. Roberts, is there a private place we can talk?”

  “Yes, you can meet upstairs in the sitting room,” Aunt Linda said. She led the way and the rest of us followed. But the last detective in line stopped and said to my mom, “I’m sorry — we need to speak with Marie alone.”

  My stomach dropped. I hadn’t anticipated this. But what could I do? Linda led us into the guest room where she’d already closed the sofa bed she and Jim had slept on, making it a cozy little sitting room. She shut the door behind her as she left.

  I was trembling. I felt small. Just sitting in the same room with three detectives in dark suits is nearly overwhelming to me. During my high school driver’s education class, the instructor made one statement I’ve never forgotten: “If a police officer follows you for two miles, he can find something to pull you over for.” I don’t know if that’s accurate, but it became the truth to me — to the point that even as an adult, if I noticed a police car behind me, I would turn and go a different way than I had planned. I didn’t want to be pulled over! I’m afraid that this attitude of fear of the police heightened my anxiety as we took our seats.

  What am I so afraid of? I demanded of myself. But I knew the answer. These men would tell me things I didn’t want to hear. They would make the murders real. Also, they would want me to help them understand Charlie’s motive; they would be looking for explanations, for clues. The Marie who wanted to help them — Marie the pleaser who wanted to meet their expectations — was clueless. I felt guilty. I had nothing to offer. I felt stupid, because I knew nothing.

  “We know this must be terribly difficult, Mrs. Roberts,” one of them said. “How are Abigail and Bryce doing?”

  “So far, they seem to be handling it well,” I answered. “The counselors will be back today and every day this week to help. Carson’s too little to understand. How are the Amish families of the girls in the hospitals?” I asked.

  “Rosanna King’s injuries are extensive. She’s still in critical condition,” one detective answered. “Rachel and Sarah Ann Stoltzfus, Barbie Fisher, and Esther King have stabilized, but they’re still in the hospital.”

  “And their families?” I asked.

  The detectives all seemed to sigh at once. I could feel the weight of grief these men were bearing. “Much in the way you seem to be, Mrs. Roberts. They’re surrounded by family and friends. They’re worried and grieving but holding on.
”

  I was struck by the compassion in his voice. I sensed that what these three men were doing was far more than “just a job.” They hurt for all of us. Tears wetted my cheeks, and as I reached for a tissue I realized that Aunt Linda had placed more than enough boxes of tissues around the room. Another God-sighting of his tender care. But these men were used to tears, so I didn’t need to apologize.

  “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.

  7

  mosaic

  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 al
l 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.