I am confined and cannot escape; my eyes are dim with grief.
—Psalm 88:8–9
It was good to be home.
The last two weeks had been an exciting adventure of serving God in Toulouse, France. In September 2006, our church had organized a work team to help restore a ministry center that was reaching inner-city youth and refugees in the heart of southern France. While there I’d helped with yard work, painting, and other restoration projects. As a break from our labor, our hosts had taken the team on a tour of Europe’s oldest remaining walled city, Carcassonne, where parts of the Kevin Costner movie Robin Hood was filmed.
I left France excited and filled with stories to tell. I was also glad to be going home. On the drive from the airport, I was reminded afresh that of all the places I’d visited, none was more beautiful than Lancaster County. Our own home was just south of the small town of Strasburg, a few miles from Lancaster City. The historic railroad capital of Pennsylvania, Strasburg is a quaint tourist center with railroad and model train museums, an antique railway, and countless small shops and other attractions. Among these is the famed Sight & Sound Theatre, a two-thousand-seat complex built in the middle of a cornfield where Broadway-quality musical productions of biblical stories such as Joseph, Moses, Jonah, and Miracle of Christmas draw visitors from around the world.
The countryside around Strasburg is farmed by the Amish, a Pennsylvania Dutch subculture that combines devout Christian faith with a simple lifestyle that has changed little since the sixteenth century. About thirty thousand Amish live in Lancaster County. Once I’d left the main highway, my drive home passed through countryside dotted with neat farmhouses and barns. Black trousers, blue shirts and dresses, and white aprons flapping on clotheslines were a reminder that these families lived without washers and dryers.
The end of September is harvesttime in Lancaster County. Out in the fields, Amish farmers were piling cut cornstalks onto wagons. Yellow squash and orange pumpkins dotted the fields. Dried tobacco leaves and hay were being bundled for market. I shared the road with horse-drawn buggies and Amish youth heading home from school on foot-pedaled scooters.
My husband, Chuck, and I lived only two miles from the Strasburg town center, but the quiet country lane offered the feeling of unspoiled countryside. Our home had been built on a four-acre lot purchased from an Amish farmer, Jake Stoltzfoos. His son Henry was our nearest neighbor, while Henry’s brother Chris owned the field adjacent to our property. Other than these neighbors, I’d had little personal contact with the Amish community. But my husband, a retired police officer, ran a chauffeur service for the Amish needing transportation beyond driving range of their buggies and wagons. He’d recently purchased a van for this purpose. On either side were magnetic signs with Chuck’s name and phone number advertising his service to potential customers.
A few other non-Amish houses shared our lane. Beyond the houses rose a ridge thick with pine and deciduous trees. During my time in France, the leaves had begun turning to the rich red, orange, and gold hues of fall. As I arrived home, the air was crisp and tangy, and I remember thinking how beautiful the fall colors were, and whether a sunset over a medieval French city or southern European beach could be any more beautiful than one over the rolling fields and hills of my home.
The evening of October 1 was my first opportunity to share my trip with family. Our second son, Josh, was in Louisiana working on a reconstruction project in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and our third son, Zach, was living in Manhattan. Our youngest son, Jon, and his wife, Megan, already had plans that Sunday evening. But I was delighted that my oldest son, Charlie, along with his wife, Marie, and their three children could join us. Their oldest daughter had just turned seven. Her younger brothers were five years old and eighteen months.
It seemed forever since I’d seen them last before leaving for France, and I hugged all three grandchildren, enjoying some good grandma moments. When we were finished eating and sharing about the trip, Charlie took his older son outside to play softball. Marie and I chatted at the breakfast bar. Their tenth wedding anniversary would be coming up in just a few weeks, and Charlie’s thirty-third birthday not long after in early December.
Another exciting topic of discussion was my next major project for the upcoming winter months. My dream room had begun to take shape in my mind about three years earlier as I pondered where my husband and I were at this stage in our lives. Our children were grown, and the two of us were heading into our retirement years. I wanted to create a sanctuary where we could find peace and quiet, rest and reflection.
What brings revitalization and joy for me is when the sun is visible or directly shining on me. We decided on a sun-room, so I’d begun planning and saving for it. There were countless possibilities. It would be a wonderful place of tranquility and a delightful place to exercise and entertain. Once I’d rested from the France trip and the fall calendar settled into a routine, we would arrange with the contractor to begin.
A short while later, Charlie and his son came back inside, and the house began to empty out. It had been a good evening. I remember thinking as we all said our farewells that Charlie had seemed quieter than usual. He was an introvert by personality and never one to talk a lot in a group situation. Would it have made a difference, I asked myself later, if I’d made a point to ask him how he was doing? Would he have opened up to me? Changed what he was thinking? Changed his plans? Waving good-bye to Charlie, Marie, and the children, I could not have conceived it would be the last time I’d see my son alive.
The next morning I got up early. Sunrise was as beautiful above the fields surrounding our house as the previous night’s sunset. Completing my normal routine of devotional reading and prayer, followed by exercise, I headed into work. I had been employed for the past thirteen years at Sight & Sound Theatre and was now manager for concessions and sales items, a position that offered challenges, but a job I loved. The sun shone bright as I drove through Strasburg to the huge theatre complex just up the road. The temperature was perfect for a gorgeous fall day. I felt no sense of foreboding, no darkness of spirit.
After a busy morning, I was glad to join a good friend and co-worker, Delores, for lunch out on the patio. Delores and I were enjoying relaxed conversation when I heard sirens in the distance. Helicopters sped by overhead. What could possibly be happening in this quiet rural community? As always when I hear emergency sirens, I offered a short prayer for whoever was in need and for the first responders involved, then went back to our conversation. When lunch ended, I returned to my office. As I stepped inside, the telephone was ringing. I picked it up. The caller was my husband. He asked me to come immediately to our son Charlie’s home.
He went into no detail. But as I hurried down the stairway from my office, that foreboding I hadn’t felt earlier began squeezing at my stomach, and a sense of urgency quickened my steps. It would take something very important for my husband to call me away from work.
The drive to Charlie and Marie’s home took only ten minutes. I turned on the radio. A news story was unfolding. There had been a shooting at an Amish schoolhouse in nearby Nickel Mines, Bart Township. Children were among the dead and injured. The reported perpetrator’s name was Roy (an incorrect reporting, I would find out a short time later).
Immediately my thoughts and heart began to race. My son Charlie drove a tanker truck for his father-in-law’s business, which collected milk for processing every night from area dairy farms, many of them Amish. Charlie often parked his milk truck right near the school. Could he have somehow seen what the shooter was attempting, tried to intervene, and been shot? What if he’d been killed? Was that why my husband had called? Had he been vague so I wouldn’t be driving while upset?
My stomach was churning as tumultuously as my thoughts by the time I pulled into our son’s driveway. A state trooper and my husband were standing in the yard as I stepped out of the car. With fear clutching at my heart, I walked right up to the trooper and asked if my son was alive.
“No, ma’am,” he responded somberly.
I turned to my husband. With deep pain in his eyes, he choked out, “It was Charlie. He killed those girls.”