Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.
—Proverbs 3:5–6
By 1963 my father had grown tired of snowy weather, icy roads, and the long commute in general. So we moved into Lancaster City, where we were just a short drive from his job at Armstrong Linoleum. Our home on East Ross Street was in the heart of old Lancaster, not more than a mile or so from the town center. The streets were made up of quaint European-style row houses with steep, pointed gables and a roofed front porch where residents would gather in the evenings to enjoy a cooling breeze and visit with their neighbors.
I wasn’t completely upset about moving. By that time I was in sixth grade at the public elementary school I attended in Holtwood, and I was dealing with some turmoil in my life—a boy who constantly picked on me. These days, a bully might get immediate attention from the school administration. In those days, tattling to adults was frowned upon; one simply did their best to survive. But I remember one occasion when a fall off my bike left me with a head injury that required stitches. The thick bandaging gave my head the appearance of being topped with a white box, and for some reason, incomprehensible to me, this boy found my headgear hilarious.
Perhaps he only meant to test the cushioning limitations of the bandage when he struck me with a baseball bat right on my stitches. But I was left furious and afraid. I didn’t know how to handle the situation. Moving seemed like a good option. In my mind, I’d convinced myself city kids would be better behaved than country kids. Especially when I found out I’d no longer be attending public school, but a Catholic parochial school where students attended Mass every day. Surely in such an environment, the children would sport halos on their heads!
Transitioning from country living to the city proved to be a major culture shock, but I soon found myself enjoying my new setting. Saint Anne’s Parochial School was close enough to walk to instead of taking a bus. I made new friends. But I soon found out human nature was no different in the city—or in a Christian school.
The class to which I was assigned had two boys who were just as naughty as the nemesis I’d left behind in Holtwood. I’d become friends with another girl in the class who was always well-behaved and, for that reason, a favorite of the nun who taught our class. Whether due to our friendship or because I too did my best to study hard and behave properly, the nun chose the two of us for an assignment. We were each given a ruler and seated behind the two misbehaving boys. It was our responsibility to snap our assigned delinquent with the ruler every time he misbehaved. (I don’t need to be told that giving a child such an assignment today would be far from politically correct!)
I did my job faithfully for about two weeks before it sunk in that being the class disciplinarian was hardly improving my popularity among my new classmates. Going to the teacher, I begged to be let out of the assignment. She agreed, and thus ended my only stint in law enforcement.
The greatest upheaval that first year in Lancaster was the assassination of President John F. Kennedy on Friday, November 22, at 12:30 p.m. I’ve often heard people say they remember exactly where they were when they heard the news. I was sitting in class at Saint Anne’s, and I remember well the shock and horror that swept the room as the teacher made the announcement.
Now I have people tell me they remember exactly what they were doing when they heard about the Nickel Mines Amish school tragedy. The only silver lining is that everyone I’ve heard make such a statement has gone on to say that they immediately started praying for all the families involved—including my own.
Within my small universe of Lancaster County, life and school followed a smooth, steady course throughout my teen years. I can give credit for this, above all, to my parents. My siblings and I were so blessed to come from a family that modeled Christlike love. I cannot remember ever witnessing any serious tension between my parents. There was a mutual attitude of submissiveness through surrender, each wanting to serve the other. Mom was the mother to whom all my friends came with those teen questions they were afraid to ask their own parents. My father was dedicated to his family, always interacting with us and carving out time to participate in our activities. We were a normal, flawed family, but his deep, unconditional love made it easy for me to comprehend the love of a perfect heavenly Father.
The only time I remember my father’s wrath was when I was thirteen years old. I’d sassed my mother and then locked myself in my room. Talking back to my mother was a show of disrespect my father would not tolerate. When I wouldn’t open my door, he promptly broke it down. My young lady status at thirteen was not enough to save me from a spanking. I never talked back to my mother again.
Overall, I worked hard to be a good student and an obedient daughter. If my faith in God was not always a conscious part of my thoughts and activities, it was an underlying foundation I took for granted. I loved daily Mass. I joined the choir and loved singing my heart out for Jesus, the Son of God who died on the cross to pay the penalty for my sins. The image at the front of the sanctuary of that broken body stretched upon a cross and crowned with thorns was an ever-present reminder of His sacrifice for me.
My greatest spiritual dilemma in those years was my fear that God would call me to be a nun. By my teen years I had admittedly more frivolous interests. When I was in eighth grade, the Beatles became the big rage. My friends and I collected trading cards with their pictures. My favorite was Ringo Starr, oddly enough, because he was the least good-looking of all of them—and therefore seemed to me more real. I’d decided that if I ever got a chance to marry one of them, it would be Ringo.
That chance, alas, never came. But by high school, clothing fashion had become a new passion of mine, and I dreamed of becoming a model or an airline stewardess. By then I’d reached my full height, and at just under five foot, eight inches, my tall, slender frame fit the part. My mother encouraged my dreams, even making arrangements for me to attend a local finishing school called Miss Elene’s. My younger brother and sister ridiculed me as I practiced floating down steps with a book on my head. I ignored them, and by the time finishing school graduation came, complete with debutante gown and gloves, my self-image was of a sophisticated, cultured young woman.
Certain young men seemed to find me attractive, and there was no denying I enjoyed their company in return. My interest in fashion grew. I loved searching out the newest styles. I must have had one of the first maxi coats in Lancaster County. The last thing I wanted was to spend my life wearing an unfashionable habit and wimple, locked away with solely female companionship in a convent somewhere. So I prayed fervently throughout high school that God would not call me to be a nun.
But by the end of my school years, my prayers had dwindled to mere formality. It was not that I believed less in God or doubted in any way His existence or sovereignty. It was just that I had other priorities. Life was good, and life was busy.
While I’d kept my promise to my mother—and God—never to lie openly again, I was not above small rebellions. Miniskirts were the “cool” dress for young women in the sixties. Knowing my mother wouldn’t approve, I acquired a few and would leave the house in one outfit, then change into a miniskirt in a nearby gas station restroom before heading out with my friends. I experimented mildly with alcohol.
When I graduated from high school in 1969, I will admit I wasn’t a particularly mature or serious-minded young woman. I began working full-time doing secretarial work at Armstrong World Industries. While still in high school I had dated a young man named Rick. He’d joined the air force, so our relationship consisted of long-distance letter writing. I’d enjoyed some local success in modeling. But my long-term goals remained to get out of Lancaster, go somewhere more inspiring, and do something exciting with my life.
In September 1969, those goals turned upside down. I never did leave Lancaster County. I never became a model or an airline stewardess. But I’ve never regretted the change in my life course, because I have Chuck, our family, and renewed faith.
On the night of the Miss America pageant my friend Barbara called. With my passion for fashion, my plans for the evening were to watch the pageant and take note of the latest styles of ball gowns and swimsuits. Barbara had other ideas—and not just for her own evening. Her date, Fred, had a friend, an “older man” of twenty-one, who had just returned home that very day from serving with the marine corps in Vietnam. Would I be willing to go on a double date with them that evening?
A marine returned from battle offered a romantic image. But I was far more interested in the beauty pageant. Nor was I in any way interested in pursuing a relationship despite the lukewarm nature of my correspondence with Rick. I was, after all, only biding my time to find a way out of small-town life in Lancaster County. But my friend pleaded, and at last I agreed.
When I told my parents of my evening plans, they reminded me of their strict rule. Any guy I wanted to date had to first be vetted and approved by my parents. Barbara talked to Fred, Fred talked to his friend, and the three agreed to stop by our house to meet my parents before we headed out on our double date.
I didn’t have to wait long before a dark green Pontiac Firebird pulled up in front of my house. A stranger was at the wheel, Barb and Fred in the backseat. As the driver stepped out, I had my first glimpse of Charles Carl Roberts III—or Chuck, as his friends called him. He was tall, clean-cut, fit and tan from his military service, polite, and well-spoken as he introduced himself to my parents. In other words, he was one handsome specimen of a man.
But at that point I was more impressed with the car than its driver. Chuck had shed his uniform for the T-shirt and cutoffs of civilian youth. But instead of the “in” style with frayed edges, someone—his mother?—had neatly hemmed them. Had marine units engaged in mortal combat in the jungles of Vietnam missed the memo on proper casual fashion mores? Not cool!
And so we went out for the evening, but it was so unmemorable, I can’t remember where. I only recall arriving home unhappy that the Miss America pageant was over and I’d missed the crowning! As to my date, my verdict was that Fred’s friend seemed decent enough, but just a bit stuffy with his crew cut and hemmed shorts for my freewheeling tastes. Though that dark green Firebird wasn’t half bad!
The very next evening, Barbara and I headed to McDonald’s, at the time Lancaster’s most popular teen hangout. As we entered, I immediately spotted Chuck’s tall, muscular frame among the throng. He was talking to another girl—very pretty—his lean, handsome features lit up with a smile as they chatted easily. Something stirred inside me. Jealousy? Which was crazy since I didn’t really even like the guy!
Chuck couldn’t have been too taken with the girl, though, because he soon drifted over to talk to me. By the end of the evening, he’d asked me for another date. Solo. I enjoyed spending time getting to know Chuck one-on-one. He was quiet, more prone to listen than to talk, but what he had to say was thoughtful and intelligent. This time I came home considerably more impressed. I guess he was too, because within a week we were dating frequently.
But I still maintained correspondence with Rick. He was stationed at an air force base in England, but due for discharge soon. I’d agreed to see him when he arrived home, though I let him know I was regularly dating another guy. In November, Rick called to let me know his arrival date. We made plans to spend the day visiting Rick’s relatives. I informed Chuck. Chuck was not happy about my spending a day with another man, but I explained that Rick and his relatives were longtime family friends. Bottom line, I’d made a commitment to Rick, and I was going to keep it.
Chuck made no further protest, but he asked me to call him when I got home. Rick picked me up, and we had a wonderful day together visiting his various family members. It was close to 11 p.m. by the time we arrived back at my house. I invited Rick inside but reminded him I’d promised to call Chuck first thing. Chuck must have been sitting at the phone, waiting for my call (there were no cell phones or even mobile phones at the time!), because he picked up halfway through the first ring.
“I’m home,” I informed him. “And Rick is here.”
“I’ll be right over,” Chuck answered.
The dial tone indicated he’d already hung up. Though Chuck lived some distance away, he was knocking at the front door within twenty minutes. I introduced him to Rick, and the two men shook hands. Then Rick began to talk. Unlike Chuck, he was an eloquent talker. For the next twenty minutes he laid out for Chuck all the reasons why I needed to experience the world and life before settling down with one person.
Chuck made little response, but his eyes never left my face as Rick talked. I just kept looking from Rick to Chuck. Though I didn’t know it at the time, my parents were upstairs, their bedroom door open, listening to the discussion.
When Rick finally wound down, Chuck turned to me, his tone quiet but firm. “I have only one thing to say, Terri. I love you. But I will not share you with anyone.”
Looking at Rick, I said, “I think that’s your cue.”
Rick’s expression was not happy, but he shrugged. “Okay, if that’s how you feel.” He turned to Chuck, and the two shook hands again.
“Maybe we can get together for a beer sometime,” Rick said lightly. Then he walked out the door. I never saw Rick again.
I found out later that after Chuck left, my mom told my dad, “That’s the man Terri’s going to marry.”
If our relationship had a single drawback, it was that Chuck had no interest in attending church with me nor spoke at all about spiritual issues. His upbringing did not include church attendance, though he remembered making a profession of faith in Christ as a child attending vacation Bible school. I didn’t count his current lack of faith as a major stumbling block. After all, my father had not been particularly religious when he married my mother. But he’d joined the Catholic Church to please her when the children came along, and I’d been witness to his quiet faith over the years. Besides, my own faith walk was far from a priority in my life at this time. What mattered was that Chuck was a wonderful young man, and I was falling more deeply in love every day.
By Christmas, Chuck had asked me to marry him. We began planning a May wedding but soon decided we couldn’t wait that long. So on March 14, 1970, I walked down my last runway—not a fashion runway, but the center aisle of Saint Anne’s Catholic Church. Floating down the aisle on my father’s arm, I felt like a princess, my bridal gown a vision of white lace, frothy mantilla veil, and long gloves. My prince in his tuxedo stood tall and handsome at the altar. My joy overflowed as we exchanged vows and I became his wife. I was just eighteen, Chuck twenty-one.
My Uncle Jake—a professional singer—provided the music for our reception at the Circle M Ranch, a famed local Western-themed resort. The song he crooned as we stepped out onto the polished floor of the reception hall for our first dance as a married couple was a lover’s song. And as I whirled my full lace skirts, clasped tightly in my new husband’s loving embrace, I harbored no doubts that my life from that point on would embody a fairy tale’s “happily ever after.”