Today, I asked myself the same question — and found that my answer hadn’t changed. Grief and sorrow flooded my soul on this first anniversary, but not anger.
Later in the day, while my family splashed in the waves on a gorgeous beach that should have made my heart smile, I was focused inward, recalling the wisdom in 2 Corinthians 1:3 – 7 that I have tested and found to be true:
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ. If we are distressed, it is for your comfort and salvation; if we are comforted, it is for your comfort, which produces in you patient endurance of the same sufferings we suffer. And our hope for you is firm, because we know that just as you share in our sufferings, so also you share in our comfort.
We live in a fallen world in need of a Savior. Wars, pestilence, cruelty, natural and man-made disasters — all of them grieve me and, I believe, grieve God. God wasn’t the source of the sin. Rather, he is the source of salvation from that sin. The tragedy of the shooting doesn’t shake that understanding. Jesus has not invited me to a place of anger, but rather to share with him in his sufferings and experience his healing presence and redemptive power. My life is a beautiful testimony that such transformation can occur. I may not have believed it possible in the aftermath of the shooting, but it is the truth.
I settled into that beauty and, grateful for the evidence of God’s comfort in our lives, watched Dan and our children playing together in the waves. We had come so far in just one year.
I tried not to watch the clock that day, but there was no fighting it.
8:15 — Charlie and I walked the kids to the bus stop.
8:40 — I kissed him goodbye on his way out the door to work — or so I’d thought.
11:00 — his call.
Then the police, my flight to my parents’, our arrival at Linda’s.
Like a movie with no soundtrack, it played all day. Was I doomed to be “the shooter’s wife” forever?
Then came renewal and fresh perspective. In Jesus, it always does. I emerged from that one-year mark with a clearer understanding of the pain I still carried. It showed itself in anxious thoughts about my children and self-doubt about my place in the world.
Perhaps my most important discovery during this time of contemplation was a whisper from the shadows inside me as I wondered at God’s rescue. He’d stepped into my crisis so dramatically — but why me? He had done something extraordinary, and he’d done it for me. I felt unworthy. I realized that there were still deep wounds inside, more healing necessary. I needed to find the truth of who God created me to be; I needed his vision for my life. I needed still greater confidence in his love. I longed for his words of truth to drown out the shouts of condemnation and accusation I still heard. Rather than frightening or discouraging me, that realization spurred me on, together with Dan, to remain steeped in God’s Word and take the long view of healing.
I revisited every scene of grace and every lesson learned over the past year, and I landed not in despair, but in worship. Where else could I land? Jesus had brought healing into my heart and restoration to our family. He had given me an amazing husband who loved our children unconditionally. We’d grown from a family of four to a vibrant family of seven. I had experienced driveway embraces and the wall of grace, the giving tree, a basket of puppies, and countless acts of love from my community, including the mountains of cards placed in my hands. My heart was full of joy amidst the sorrow, and I was undone by the tender redemption of God.
As if those and other scenes of God’s light in the darkness were not enough, he added to our lives three tangible symbols of his gentle love. Today they abide in the lively yard that surrounds our home.
The first is a rosebush. When we moved from the home I had shared with Charlie, I ever so carefully dug up the three rosebushes Charlie had given to me, taking great pains not to damage the root system. Together, Dan and I transplanted them to the yard of our new home. Now, years later, one bush survives, a living witness of our story. Its roots are grounded in the soil of Georgetown, its thorns speak of the pain we bore, and each year its new blossoms declare that God brings new life from death. Each summer when its fragrant, peach-colored blossoms appear, I snip the first perfect one and place it in a vase on Abigail’s dresser. After that, we share the blooms all summer. A bittersweet reminder of past love, present in our lives all over again.
The second symbol was a housewarming gift from the Amish family I took to visit Rosanna’s family in the hospital. Among their many skills, they are shed builders. Shortly after we moved into our new home, they delivered the gift of a handcrafted shed. My youngest affectionately called it our barn and wanted to fill it immediately with cows and sheep. The children of the builder came along that day and jumped on our trampoline with my kids. Their squeals of laughter, I am sure, could be heard all the way to heaven. This was a gift I could not have planned for or even known to hope for. It stands today as a symbol of grace in its most extraordinary capacity — a storage shed for memories of God’s entwining one Amish family with my own.
The third symbol of God’s great exchange of life for death is far more active and wiggly than the first two.
One early February day, my parents joined Dan, my three kids, and me as we visited an Amish family whose lives had been deeply affected by the tragedy at the schoolhouse. We spent the afternoon chatting in their living room, and then they invited us to explore their barn. There we found a litter of tiny pink newborn puppies snuggling with their mother. As my kids peered into the stall, oohing and aahing over the newborn pups, the farmer mentioned that they had two puppies from a previous litter that were old enough for sale. That was all the kids, who shared Charlie’s love of dogs, needed to hear! They were shown the puppies, and in a heartbeat, Bryce scooped up one and Abigail the other. They both began begging to take a puppy home.
The one chocolate lab we already had seemed enough for me, and I hadn’t planned on expanding our animal population. They held the puppies as we walked around looking at the horses and cows, and our hosts explained the milking equipment and feeding process to the children. A large operation, it brought back a flood of memories of years sitting beside my dad in the front seat of his milk truck, visiting the Amish farms on his route. I thought of Charlie’s dream of becoming a milk truck driver and how much he’d loved his job. Every memory was a happy one.
As we prepared to leave, the begging began.
“Please, we’ll do anything!” the kids cried, still cradling their puppies.
Abigail declared, “I’ll do chores.”
Bryce said, “I’ll take it out for walks.”
Carson chimed in, “Me too!”
Dan grinned at me. He knew how this would end.
“Bringing home a puppy is not a quick decision,” I said. “You’ll have to let Dad and me pray about it first.”
Several days later, on Valentine’s Day, we surprised them with the gift of one of the puppies. Abigail named her Eden, and she quickly became one of the family.
Today, Eden bounds through our yard, lavishing irrepressible love on every member of our family. She’s not perfect, and often she challenges us, but even so she is another reminder of the continual Holy Exchange and of God’s redemption of our lives. The words of Isaiah 51:3 explain Eden’s purpose:
The LORD will surely comfort Zion
and will look with compassion on all her ruins;
he will make her deserts like Eden,
her wastelands like the garden of the LORD.
Joy and gladness will be found in her,
thanksgiving and the sound of singing.
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.
21
father of 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.”
One Light Still Shines: My Life Beyond the Shadow of the Amish Schoolhouse Shooting Page 25