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

by Marie Monville

Then came the gentlest sentence, spoken by Rosanna’s father: “At the end of the day, we each have someone to hold, someone to cry with. We have each other. And we think about you. You don’t have anyone.” This same sentiment was spoken at Bart Fire Hall by another Amish family. The concern these families showed for me was beyond my comprehension.

  I felt so unworthy. I still carried shame for Charlie’s actions — shame that did not belong to me, that God did not want me to bear. This family’s tenderness toward me and my children was the picture of the heart of God for us. No guilt. No shame. Just grace, poured out to overflowing — and a gentle call to heal in his truth.

  I couldn’t stop the tears.

  Who am I, I asked, what right do I have to be a part of this indescribably grace-filled exchange? I have nothing to offer that’s of value to them, yet they give me a beauty beyond description.

  What happened to me within that hospital room was a mystery too sacred to adequately express. Grace is a seed planted, and it sprouted inside me there at Rosanna’s bedside.

  Their love was abundant; it was selfless; it was extraordinary. It was as if a host of angels was gathered there, pouring out rivers of grace from heavenly vessels. My heart was showered, washed clean of Satan’s clinging stench, then doused with holy oil. Heaven was almost in my view. And when I do finally arrive there in God’s perfect timing, it will not be foreign to me, for I glimpsed that holy realm from Rosanna’s hospital room.

  14

  the giving tree

  “Can I go over to Old Grandpa’s house for a visit?” Bryce said one afternoon after school. I knew what he was up to; he was probably looking for a snack.

  “Of course!” I said. “You go ahead. I’ll be over in a few minutes. Why don’t you let Dale out on the deck when you go?” I heard him call our yellow lab, open the door — and a thought struck me. “And, Bryce, ask Grandpa about the time he pretended to walk to school but hid under the porch the whole day.” I knew Bryce would love to hear a Grandpa story.

  “Okay, Mom,” he said as the door closed behind him.

  I was more grateful than ever, since losing Charlie, to have my grandparents next door. We’d moved into this house within a few months of Abigail’s birth. Immediately, I’d felt that living next to my grandparents with my husband and new daughter was one of the most wonderful gifts I’d ever received. Being back in Georgetown after our few years in Lititz meant that my dad stopped in every day to see the baby, or we walked up to the truck garage to see him when his truck rolled in the driveway. Mom loved spending time helping to care for Abigail too.

  I enjoyed chatting with my grandparents every day, learning gardening tips, hearing the stories of their childhood. They loved watching my kids play in the yard and invited them over for Popsicles on hot days and for soda anytime. They said watching the kids kept them young! My grandfather often teased my grandmother that she was the “ol’ seed.” When Abigail was two years old, she picked up on his antics and began calling them Old Grandma and Old Grandpa. They loved it, and the names stuck.

  Shortly after Charlie and I had moved in, I was reminded of how I used to watch Amish families gardening together. The inspiration of my grandparents prompted me to begin gardening, even though I hadn’t enjoyed it as a child. I relished the feel of rich brown soil beneath my feet and under my fingernails, and living next to Grandpa meant that we often worked together. Grandma scolded him for working too hard and planting too much, but he winked at me and paid no attention to her comments. His garden was about the size of a football field, filled with rows of sweet corn, peas, potatoes, lima beans, tomatoes, and onions.

  I soaked up the tips he shared, such as when to harvest rhubarb (in months spelled with three and four letters) and proper methods for stringing beans (tying string to poles in various formations). Grandpa didn’t like cherry tomatoes, so I always tried to sneak a few from my plants into his baskets of plum or beefsteak tomatoes. When he found them, he would laugh and throw them at me.

  Charlie and I worked on flower beds in front of our house, and he gave me several rosebushes as gifts; we cared for them together. I often snipped a few fragrant blooms as a centerpiece for the dinner table.

  I forced my mind back to today — a late October afternoon. I wondered if my busy life as a single mom would allow me to join my grandfather in the garden later. I finished up the cleaning, put away the vacuum, and decided to check messages before heading next door for a chat.

  There was yet another message from Dan Monville. His third. Couldn’t he figure out that if I hadn’t called him back, then I didn’t want to? Why wasn’t he going away?

  I called my mom. “Hey, it’s me. You and Dad know Dan Monville, right?”

  She did and reminded me that I had gone to his wedding with my grandparents when I was thirteen. “Why do you ask?” she said.

  “Because Aunt Shirley gave him my number shortly after the shooting. People at his office knew we were distantly related and asked him to drop off a box of gifts they’d collected. He’s called a few times, but I’ve just deleted his messages.”

  “I think he works on the north end of town. He’s in insurance, I think. He must be about thirty-nine or forty by now. Two kids. We haven’t seen him in a long time, but he’s a good man. Your dad’s folks think highly of him. They know him better than we do. Why don’t you just let him drop the gifts off one day, Marie?”

  It was a reasonable question, but … “Mom, I just don’t have the energy for small talk with someone I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him other than that one time when I was a teenager. I’m sure he’s nice, but it just sounds awkward. Would you mind very much if we arranged for him to drop them off at your place one evening? I’ll bring the kids over so there’ll be a bunch of us. That way I won’t feel on the spot for small talk.”

  And so the plans were made. Relieved, I hung up and headed next door to see Grandpa.

  Dale bounded up to me when I stepped out the door, so I let him come along. Tail wagging, he ran a few circles around me. Poor thing. He must be missing Charlie. He’d always been Charlie’s dog. Charlie had always been a dog lover, having grown up with dogs in his home. Dale was his constant companion in the house and yard. If Charlie was outside, Dale stayed right with him, never wandering off. (I had no such luck. Dale seemed to enjoy running away from me when I called, as if he was God’s reminder to me of what I couldn’t control!) Many afternoons, Charlie and the kids would take Dale out to play, throwing the ball, brushing him, and giving him treats. They all — dad, kids, and dog — loved the time equally, while I loved the few quiet moments alone inside. Since Charlie’s death, Dale wasn’t getting the attention he was used to.

  Bryce was sitting with Grandpa on the steps outside his house. They were all smiles, sipping root beer and licking Fudgesicles. The exact scene I was hoping to find!

  “Looks like Dale needs some playtime, doesn’t it?” I said. “After you’re finished, let’s play fetch with him in the backyard. Do you remember hearing Daddy talk about the dogs on his milk route?”

  “Yes, but can you tell me again?” Bryce said, licking the last bits of a dribbling Fudgesicle from his fingers.

  “He almost always took dog treats with him in his truck. When Daddy pulled his big truck onto a farm, the farm dogs would come running straight for the truck, their tails wagging, knowing your daddy was going to play with them and give them a treat. He told me he loved them all, but he had a few favorites. If they behaved themselves and stayed with him the whole time he was filling the truck, he’d reward them with a taste of milk when he unhooked the hose. He said they were so eager to taste that yummy milk that he had to jump out of the way of their tongues and paws because they got so excited.”

  Bryce had stopped licking and was watching, a big smile on his face, as I described his daddy.

  Grandpa chuckled. “Used to do the same myself.”

  “Can I give Dale some milk when we go back to the house?” Bryce said.


  “Sure. Daddy would have liked that.”

  It was getting easier to share “Daddy stories” with the kids. I’d just told an entire story and hadn’t felt choked up once. Progress.

  After I put the kids to bed that night, I sat down, phone in hand, to call Dan. Initiating conversation with a man on the phone felt strange to me — I couldn’t remember having done it before! Conservative was practically my middle name. I had been married my whole adult life, I hadn’t worked outside our home in years, and I had limited interactions with other adults outside my small sphere of church and family. Though everything I’d thought I knew had changed several weeks ago and my wallflower mentality seemed to be fading, I wondered if my newfound confidence could get me through this phone call.

  I swallowed hard and made the call. It lasted less than two minutes.

  “Hi. This is Marie Roberts. Is this Dan?”

  He told me he was glad I’d called back. “Your Aunt Shirley, my ex-mother-in-law, suggested that when I drop off the gifts I should bring my kids over to play with your kids. Would that be a good idea?”

  I liked it. He and my dad could play in the backyard with the kids, and I would stay in the house with my mom, perhaps avoiding conversation completely. Perfect. Maybe my new sense of life purpose and freedom was strengthening me from the inside out.

  We decided to meet at my parents’ house the next Wednesday evening. As I hung up, I told God that Dan had better not bring me a “self-help-through-tragedy” book. In the past three weeks, my library had blossomed, now containing a burgeoning load I didn’t have time to read. I was thankful for the overflow of support, but my problems were not going to be solved by any book other than the Word of God.

  I surprised myself by looking forward to the dinner at my parents’ home. It was an opportunity for my kids to have an ordinary evening, playing in the backyard with my dad and some other kids. I’d been worrying that the kids were getting lonely. Since the shooting, we hadn’t socialized at all. And try as I might, I knew I wasn’t as much fun as their daddy.

  Charlie’s schedule had had room in it to play with the kids almost every afternoon. He usually left each evening around 7:00 p.m. to start his milk route, so we were all accustomed to his absence at bedtime. I put the kids to bed on my own every night for over seven years. Charlie would return home around 4:00 or 5:00 a.m. Once Carson grew to be a toddler, he would wake Charlie every day around noon. If I didn’t watch him closely, he would sneak into our bedroom and wake his dad much earlier. The smile on his face and gleam in his eyes as he patted his daddy’s cheek and kissed his head were too much for Charlie to resist. No matter how tired he might be, he always responded in love toward his son. Then, when the older kids got home, they usually had time to play with their daddy before dinner, after which Charlie went off to work again.

  Wednesday evening arrived. The kids and I enjoyed one of my mom’s delicious meals. Dan and his children were to arrive after dinner. This will be a good time for the kids, I thought. I’d been silly to worry over it like I had. Carson, especially, always lit up at the sight of new playmates. I anticipated the kids’ squeals of delight. Lately, Bryce had seemed lonely and Abigail unusually quiet. A few hours of lively conversation and outdoor fun would be good for everyone.

  Dan and his children, Nicole, age fourteen, and DJ, age seven, arrived just as we finished dinner. Introductions were easy. Mom and Dad knew Dan, and once I saw him, I remembered his open, friendly face. It felt as though I already knew this family from the many stories I’d heard. The kids bounced to the backyard, Dan and my dad following close behind, and Mom and I were kitchen-bound. She washed, I dried, frequently stopping to watch the exchange outside.

  As a parent, I’d always treasured moments when someone else chose to invest time and energy in my precious ones. I was content to be with my mom, the soundtrack of laughter playing in the background.

  “Mom, finding the energy to be playful just eludes me these days. I feel like I’m forcing it. For weeks now, it has been a daily challenge, like walking through quicksand, to handle all the responsibilities of a single parent. Chores, bills, yard work, paperwork.”

  “That’s only natural, Marie. You’ve lost your partner in running a family,” Mom said. “You’re going to have to let some things slide to find time for what’s most important. You don’t have to keep a spotless house, and it’s okay if some chores just wait. You’ll get through this.”

  “Charlie was always such a playful dad. I worry that we don’t have as many giggles in our lives.”

  Just then, the laughter from the backyard pulled me to the window, and I watched Dad and Dan playing like kids themselves.

  “God is their Father, Marie. He’s taking care of them.”

  She was right. My kids were okay, and I would be too.

  Everything went according to plan until my mom said, “Go call everyone in for dessert.”

  “Mom,” I complained, “I don’t feel up to a conversation.”

  “It would be rude not to visit for at least a few minutes. Go on.”

  I felt like a twelve-year-old reluctantly following my mom’s orders, but I went outside to invite everyone in for cookies and iced tea. The troop of seven all raced for the kitchen, Dad and Dan included.

  Fortunately, the conversation that night barely needed me; the kids filled the time effortlessly. Dan and his children were thoughtful, kind, and compassionate. There were no awkward questions or tense moments. As they prepared to leave, he brought in a white basket filled with lovely handmade quilts, DVDs, and books for the kids. Then he handed his business card to my parents and me, offering help if we had a need he could fulfill. I took it but laughed to myself. I don’t ask for help, and I will certainly not be needing the information on this card.

  My middle child had other ideas. Playing with friends was his favorite pastime, and he and DJ had hit it off well. Over the next few days he insisted that we get together again, pleading for a playdate with DJ. I put him off. I turned him down. But my five-year-old had his mind made up.

  I considered calling another friend from school instead, but I found myself incapable of dialing the phone. What did other parents truly think about our family now? Would they be reluctant to send their children to the home of a murderer? Would I, in their place? Beyond pleasant surface exchanges, what were the families of my children’s friends whispering? My children had received no invitations to friends’ homes since the shooting.

  Bryce continued to ask for DJ. Finally, his determination overcame my resistance, and eventually I wondered why I’d said no in the first place.

  I emailed Dan, thankful now that the business card I’d scorned provided an alternative to a phone call. We made plans to meet after church the following Sunday at a park.

  This was a brand-new situation for me. The thought of meeting another man, even with our kids in tow, felt awkward. I was simply doing it for Bryce. If I had my way, we would stay at home, but this was not about me. I will always lay down my life for my children. It was a phrase that resonated through my heart each morning, defining the day ahead. And if I would lay down my life, surely I could tolerate a playdate for my kids. What was wrong with me? Still, I told my parents and Charlie’s about it, just so I wouldn’t feel like I was doing something “in secret.” Then I put it out of my mind. It was late October, and given the implications of all the anniversaries we would face in the next eight weeks, I had more important things to think about.

  And indeed, our lives flew from one emotion-filled “remembrance day” to another. Each of them had at one time been celebrations, but no longer. Our tenth anniversary came and went on November 9. Somehow I got through it without a grief-stricken meltdown. Elise’s ninth birthday was next on November 14. God’s gentleness with me was intensely real, expressed so beautifully in the cards and letters of encouragement and prayers still flowing into our home. I received them that week as a birthday gift from heaven.

  Thanksgiving loomed b
efore me. Holiday celebrations had always held such significance for our family. The hole left by Charlie seemed deep and black as the day approached. Imagine my shock when I received an invitation to take my children and parents on an all-expense-paid trip to the south of France for Thanksgiving!

  I had a dear friend, Michelle, who was a missionary in France, along with her husband, Ben, and their daughter, a few months older than Carson. When Michelle heard the news of the shooting, she shared it with her missionary parents and her brother, who, in an act of God-inspired generosity, offered to pay for our trip as a time of healing. We leapt at that opportunity, were able to get expedited passports from the passport office in Philadelphia, packed our bags, and soon found ourselves in a picturesque little French village, warmed by the love of friends and fascinated by the area’s history and culture. A French family in Michelle’s church opened their home to us, and together we enjoyed strolling through the village and stopping at the local bakery to enjoy fresh-baked croissants. At Michelle’s home, we celebrated Thanksgiving by baking pumpkin pies and making homemade bread. Our time was peace-filled and leisurely, and we returned home rested and restored.

  It was another Holy Exchange — a dreaded holiday redeemed by a generous gift of new memories to last a lifetime.

  The next hurdle to clear was my twenty-ninth birthday on December 5 and Charlie’s thirty-third, December 7. My children and I quietly celebrated my birthday with my parents, and on Charlie’s birthday we shared memories, looked at picture albums, and wept and laughed together.

  My daily prayer was for healing peace for us all.

  Christmas was coming fast. Lord, I prayed, get us through just one more holiday, then speed us to the end of the year. Surely 2007 will bring a new beginning.

  The community continued to surround our family with love and grace in tangible ways. God stirred the heart of one special woman, Tiffany, who organized a “giving tree.” Local families were invited to stop by Bart Fire Hall one day in early December to place a gift card, ornament, or note of encouragement for us on a Christmas tree. We were invited to the giving tree party at the end of that day, so my children and I, accompanied by my parents, walked to the fire hall together. The last time I’d taken this walk with my parents had been for the gathering with the Amish community and first responders. Though this time I felt a little nervous, I was far more at peace than on that occasion. Abigail, Bryce, and Carson, excited to be invited to a party, held hands with my parents and did their best to hurry them along.